


Across Every Universe - Green Eyes at Rainbow Corner

by Pmzilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Army Doctor John Watson, Captain John Watson, First Kiss, First Meetings, Green Eyes, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Sherlock is a Spy, Songfic, The Royal Navy, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 42,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pmzilla/pseuds/Pmzilla
Summary: Sherlock Holmes goes undercover as a Naval Lieutenant at American Red Cross Club in London, Rainbow Corner to find out whether the plans for the D-Day Invasion have been compromised by an American Colonel. Whilst investigating, he meets the captivating Capt. John Watson, who finds himself centre stage in both the dance club and Sherlock's investigation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is in response to a prompt by 221BloodNun on Tumblr: https://meta-lock.tumblr.com/post/159758766508/221bloodnun-221bloodnun-wwii-johnlock-au  
> I (Heart) Comments! ;)

“Capt. Watson! C’mon Doc - you going to the dance with the Yanks?”

“Why is ‘stand easy’ never a command I need to issue, Murray?”

Corporal Bill Murray climbs down from his bunk and snaps to ironic attention, “Corporal Murray, reporting for duty, Sir!”

“Yeah, Eyes Front, Corporal! I should have you lot running parade drill in the rain instead of making attempts on innocent WAC’s”, Captain John Watson glares, watching the momentary panic in the eyes of his men before he relaxes, “...however, seeing as the Yanks were nice enough to haul over Glenn Miller, an entire company of reasonable looking women, and enough blood and bandages to handle whatever perfectly planned military disaster the High Command shies our way….well- we can’t deprive them of a proper British welcome.”

The men all laugh, Douglass asks if they are really going to get Glenn Miller, MacAllister throws his cap at him, “We’d rather hear you sing, Cap'n.

“Alright, tonight it will be that infernal tea shop of a canteen they've thrown up on base, Friday night - dancing with the Yanks at Rainbow Corner. (Cheering from the men) Yes, I’ll come - if only to be sure you spare the Allied nurses.” Capt. Watson waggles his eyebrows, and the company turns to catcalls and boos.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, spending time with the American Colonel is legwork - and you did promise.”

Lieutenant Holmes lays the cap of his dress uniform down on the hall table with an exasperated gesture, “Mycroft - the plans for Operation Overlord - at this point - might as well be carved into granite. If the American is a German spy, it will only make a nearly impossible plan actually impossible”, Sherlock drops down into the fireside chair in a distinctly unmilitary, draped pose.  “I don’t think that justifies my spending the evening in a noisy canteen, listening to the Americans braying over some tone-deaf dance band.”

“I know you care more for the war effort than such a comment might lead one to believe. Overlord planning is perhaps set in stone, but the timing is most certainly not - so find out what he knows.”

“He’s not going to offer up that kind of information over cocktail hour.”

“Then stay on him until last call - Sherlock we need confirmation. If he were going to just ‘offer up’ sensitive information, he wouldn’t be much of a spy - and I have any number of perfectly functioning military staff I could send on such a mission.  I’m sending you - make your deductions.”

Sherlock smooths back his slightly-longer-than-regulation hair, “At least you made me a naval officer this time, the uniforms are much better.”

“Yes, that is just what I told the First Sealord when I called in this particular favour.”

“Where shall I report, then?”

“Meet me tomorrow at the Diogenes Club for tea.”

“Right.”

“...and Sherlock? There will be other British military there tonight, mostly Army - don’t neglect your eidetic memory of our order of battle, it won’t do to get caught out in front of our Allies.”

“Really, Mycroft.” 

“Well, some find a Sam Browne belt over olive drab to be…..distracting, but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? It's all just...transport.” Mycroft smiles smugly. 

Sherlock stands and shrugs on the physicality of a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy as easily as he would slip into his black wool coat in peacetime. Lieutenant Holmes offers Mycroft a sharp, palm down salute with only a small smile quirking on his lips. He takes his hat and vanishes into the night.

Mycroft sighs quietly and returns to the folders on his desk.


	2. "...Soft Lights"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson, and Watson's CO - Sebastian Moran.

Rainbow Corner is the outpost of the American Red Cross in London, near Piccadilly Circus. Sherlock glances up at the facade as he emerges from his cab.  _ Trust the Americans to join the battle late, but insist on building an entertainment palace for the Germans to shell before they get any fighting done.  _ In front of the building, an enormous American flag waves; various members of the British and American Armed Forces walk in and out. 

One young man,  _ British Army Medical Corps,  _ Sherlock notes - tells his comrades, “It really IS Glenn Miller tonight - can you believe it? Whenever he arrives, Sir!”

The corporal bounces next to his CO like an excited puppy, but it’s the CO that catches Sherlock’s attention, although he cannot think why. Short in stature, blonde hair, military bearing - the young Captain is designed to be unmemorable, inoffensively ordinary, yet Sherlock can barely tear his eyes away. Perhaps it is the way that his men circle him like planets held in his orbit. Sherlock finds himself drifting towards Captain….Watson as well. Soon only six feet separate them, and their eyes meet for the first time. 

The Captain feels a jolt  - something like recognition - when he returns the Naval Lieutenant’s gaze. In a room full of strapping, boisterous Americans, the tall man stands out - dark hair, just barely curling underneath his peaked cap - a bit longer than regulation, the sailor’s skin is pale - he could be part of the command - but John wonders if those long, elegant fingers have ever tied a knot or loosed a rigging. John sends his men off towards the bar, leans on a high table at the side of the dance floor and waits. He is not disappointed for long.

“Is it your first time in Allied territory?”

“Aye, my first unofficial joint action - though we’ve been seeing them crop up around the base more regularly...mostly in the canteen, as a matter of fact.”

“You are a physician?”   
“Surgeon, yes - Captain John Watson.” John opts for a civilian greeting and sticks out his hand; Sherlock takes it.

“Sherlock, Lieutenant Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, now that we have it sorted that we don’t need to be saluting each other - what brings the Royal Navy to this particular port - I don’t see many of your lot about.”

“I work for the British High Command, Admiral Pound. Tonight, I’m sent to squire around the US Brass.”

“Chaperoning the Ball, are you?”

John turns to look at Lt. Holmes, who is standing very close - the better to hear over the warm up band. He notices three things: Holmes is easily the most arresting looking man present - not handsome, not really - but once you look you cannot look away, his eyes are remarkable -bright green-flecked with blue and gold, and he is looking at John as though they were alone in the room.

Sherlock bites his full lower lip, notices that John ( _ Watson!)  _ has not moved away, and takes a chance, “I’m badly outnumbered, you see. I have to make sure the Americans don’t forget the Royal Navy - no matter how distracting you handsome Army captains may be.”

John blushes to the roots of his bright blonde hair; but before he can respond, he sees his platoon loping across the dance floor. Two of them have already found WAC’s to chat up, another has a dance hostess in tow. When John turns back to Lt. Holmes, still wondering how to reply - the man has vanished.

 

* * *

Sherlock watches as Colonel Braithwaite enters the top tier of the club, followed by British Army Colonel Moran and various members of their staff. Captain Grosvenor, one of Mycroft’s minions, gestures Holmes over, and he crosses the dance floor without hesitation.  _ Mycroft may have had a point about the distractions of olive drab, but I have a job to do.  _ The Captain greets Holmes and introduces him to the rest of the table. The American Colonel is polite, but not terribly interested - even though Grosvenor was sure to mention Holmes’ role on the First Sea Lord’s staff. However, Colonel Sebastian Moran’s attention is definitely piqued, both by Holmes position and his name.  _ Interesting. _

One gin and tonic is all the time it takes to realise that the American is no more a spy than the handsome Army captain he met earlier. Sherlock could take his leave right away, except for a suspicion of intrigue from the British Colonel Moran. Moran hitches his chair closer to Sherlock and speaks privately to him. At first, Sherlock is unsure what the Colonel’s intentions are - the advance could be seen as testing the waters for soliciting information, or perhaps a different type of soliciting entirely. Watching Moran’s eyes following the line of Sherlock’s neck, while the conversation veers into Confidential territory - Sherlock deduces that Moran’s interest in him is quite catholic. Doubtless, Mycroft would want him to ‘lie back and think of England’ if doing so could catch the Operation Overlord spy. His long fingers trace the edge of a second G&T while he evaluates and discards other options for intelligence gathering, options that don’t involve a whiskey-soaked grope with a traitorous Colonel.

 

* * *

 

John scans the room for Lt. Holmes, eventually seeing him cutting through the dance floor with the smoothness of a battleship at full steam. Holmes doesn’t look back. John wonders if he misinterpreted the Naval officer’s words, but he honestly doesn’t know how many ways one can understand another man calling you distracting and handsome. Perhaps he didn’t respond quickly enough? Or Holmes feared to continue the interaction in such a public place? 

Captain Watson mused over the flirtation; he did not notice an elegant woman in a white evening dress with glittering butterflies on the shoulder approaching him. 

“Why Captain, you look how I feel, dearie!”

Watson draws himself up to attention, “Sorry, M’am - lost in thought - how can I help?”

The honey-blonde woman replies, “Well, we could start with your name, then how’s about a dance, soldier?”

Captain Watson takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor. His older sister, Harriet, made sure that John could handle dancing, “...If you are ever to make it in with those officer toffs, you need to know how to navigate society - not just cut them open.” An instrumental recording of “Green Eyes” is playing through the PA system, and John is unaware that he is singing Bob Eberly’s part into the ear of his charming companion.

“Say, you are really good. Makes a girl wish her eyes weren’t blue.”

For the second time that evening, John is blushing to the roots of his hair. He smiles bashfully and thanks her. Before the song ends, John can feel eyes on him. His first instinct is to glance at his men, but they are all otherwise occupied. John tries to avoid looking at the balcony where Holmes is entertaining, amongst others, John’s CO, Colonel Moran. When his eyes finally drift up, he finds Holmes is staring intensely at John and his dance partner. Meanwhile, his Colonel is getting closer and closer to Holmes' chair, and John scowls, feeling a fleeting stab of jealousy.

The song ends, and John’s partner says, “Would you excuse me, dearie?”. John conducts her to the edge of the floor and rejoins his table. The warm-up act is breaking down their instruments, soon Miller’s orchestra will be out. John gets another round of drinks for him and his men and watches the stage idly. Every now and again, his ungovernable eyes steal a sidelong glance at Sherlock’s table.

 

* * *

Sherlock was making halting progress with the seduction of Sebastian Moran when he first noticed John on the dance floor with that woman.  Their two blonde heads close together, John blushed as prettily as any girl and Sherlock lost the thread of his flirtation with Moran.

Moran noticed where the Naval Lieutenant had redirected his attention, “That’s Watson, he’s one of mine. You know Watson, Holmes?” Moran’s look is cool and appraising.

“Just met him on the way in earlier. Seemed a good chap - is that his girl?”

Moran leans in behind Sherlock’s left shoulder, “Don’t know that he’s got a girl...or wants one if you take my meaning...is that your real question?”

Sherlock swallows and reassembles his face into a seductive mask, “Working for the Admiralty has given me a...taste..for a gentleman who can pull rank, though.”

“I thought it might...I thought it might. Then all you need this evening is right here, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Moran lays a heavy, calloused hand along Sherlock’s thigh - just low enough to be friendly, but high enough to be clear in his meaning.

“Yes, Sir, Colonel.”

 

* * *

Glenn Miller takes the stage to thunderous applause. He announces that the evening's’ concert would be broadcast back home over the wireless, and the band swings into their first number. Corporal Murray grabs John by the arm, “Captain! I can’t believe it - all the lads here and without even trying that bird of paradise flies right up to you!”

“Steady on, Corporal - I’m sure she’s just one of the dance hostesses.”

“In that dress?”

Douglass bounces over to them, bubbling over with excitement, “That wasn’t a hostess, Cap’t! That was Helen O’Connell! THE Helen O’Connell!” and just as John claps his hand over his mouth, the lady in question takes the stage.

“Thank you, Thank you - for those of you who know me - you probably know that I’m usually one-half of a double act. Regrettably, Bob Eberly - my partner in crime - went and got himself drafted. You’d think there was a war on!”

The crowd laughs uproariously.

“Fortunately for everybody here, I think I may have just found a worthy substitute, and he’s from right here in Merry Olde England, Capt. John Watson - would you mind so terribly joining me here on stage?”

The British Army contingent begins hooting, and John’s men pick him up bodily and deposit him on stage. John is crimson with embarrassment, which makes his eyes turn a gorgeous marine blue.

“So what do you say, Johnny? One song?” John swallows the nervous lump in his throat as he nods. He looks up to the balcony where Sherlock is….flirting?...with Moran? ...and without another thought, says into the microphone, “Green Eyes, then?”

Glenn nods, and the orchestra sweeps into the intro. 

John Watson has a lovely tenor, let it be said - though he is no Bob Eberly - but on stage as on the battlefield, his presence carries through. There is not a woman in the place who isn’t wishing for green eyes (and not a few men, too.) As John sings, his eyes roam the crowd - but soon they meet the cool and limpid green eyes he met just an hour earlier. And this time, Lt. Sherlock Holmes’ attention is undividedly John’s. 

John lets his gaze sweep back through the crowd,“so deep that in my searching for happiness I fear that they will ever haunt me” his eyes close, “all through my life they’ll taunt me”, John looks directly at Sherlock, to sing the final line, “but will they ever want me, Green Eyes, make my dream come true.”

 


	3. "...Will They Ever Want Me?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me if I have it wrong.”
> 
> “No, oh God, no... John! ” Sherlock pushes the door closed and slips the bolt.

Sherlock abandons intelligence gathering with Moran and makes his way down onto the dance floor. He sees John return, the conquering hero, to the table where his men have gathered. Other well-wishers (mostly British or female or both) are winding their way to congratulate him. He has a pretty brunette hanging off of his elbow, and Corporal Douglass patting his arm. Sherlock is about to abandon hope of coming anywhere near him, when John politely breaks for the loo. Sherlock follows.

Sherlock can hear the band playing _Fools Rush In_ , as he looks for signs to the WC in the hallway. _Ironic choice, that._ In the stalls of the men’s WC, Sherlock looks for John - trying to avoid the appearance of a stalker or pervert - although he was decidedly the former and equally the latter by any estimation in 1944. He finds John in the last stall, slightly larger by dint of the architecture of the place, John is leaning back against the wall - one leg crooked. John kicks off the tiles wall when he sees Sherlock’s long, slender fingers around the edge of his door. Without a word, John reaches for him - his fingers curl into the uniform’s lapels, dragging Sherlock close enough to kiss.

“Tell me if I have it wrong.”

“No, oh God, no... _John!_ ” Sherlock pushes the door closed and slips the bolt. He slides John’s peaked cap off and knocks his own brimmed hat back to kiss John without impediment.

“When I saw you with Moran, I thought I’d missed my chance.”

Sherlock is pulled up short for a moment, panting against John’s neck. “Never, but this might make it hard for you - Moran’s your CO?”, John explores Sherlock’s neck with lips, teeth, and tongue. Sherlock cannot help but chase John’s lips with his own, even though it was Sherlock who pulled back out of their kiss.

“He is.  Well, I’m in his command. I’ve been sheltered from his..ah...attentions by my Major. Will you be...Oh! No wait…Holmes...Sherlock.” John cups Sherlock’s jaw with both hands and forces him to meet his eyes, “The way you two were looking at each other...will I be getting in the middle of something?”

Sherlock presses his forehead against John’s...there is no way to tell John the truth. At the same time, Sherlock wants this moment again and again with his handsome blonde Captain.

“No. Ah, Moran is...persistent. But, rest assured Capt. Watson, I could not see anyone else in the whole of London after you sang to me. You...you were singing to me, weren’t you?”, John looks into Sherlock’s eyes - his expression is amused and ridiculously fond.

“Of course, you idiot.”

Sherlock slides his mouth against John’s, “ _Green Eyes_ was for me.  Are there dreams I could make come true, for you?”

“Oh God, yes” John removes Sherlock’s hat, handing it to him. In that moment’s distraction, he flips Sherlock against the tiles, pressing the length of their bodies together, tangling one hand in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock gasps as John murmurs, “You are doing that right now. Just...yes, right there...oh!”

Their kiss continues, slowing and deepening. John strokes down over Sherlock’s chest, under his unbuttoned jacket. He pulls Sherlock’s hips against him, then slides his hands over Sherlock’s gorgeously plush arse.

When they finally come up for air, they hear the strains of Glenn Miller’s band playing _Moonlight Serenade,_ the closing number, through the wall. John pulls away, trailing his hand over Sherlock's jawline.

“No, no, no..I don’t want to stop”, Sherlock yanks John back roughly, biting at his mouth.

“Jesus, Holmes - I don’t either, but we must stop. This isn’t where...oh, do that again....this isn’t the right time or place for all I want to do with you. Not to mention, the loo is going to be overrun with servicemen when this song ends.”

“Come home with me? You are on a weekend leave, aren’t you? Do you have to stay on base?”

“You have a place in the city?”

“I work for the..Admiralty. I’ve a flat near the British Museum. Come. You can’t leave me like this.” Sherlock’s smile is equal parts debauched and wicked. John already feels the impossibility of saying no to this remarkable man.

“You will be the death of me - ok, yes, I’ll come. Whisht, now. First, we have to escape this WC and the rest of my platoon.”

“They won’t look for you?”

John rubs the back of his neck ruefully, “I reckon they’ll guess I found someone to take me home...or something.”

“A man?”

“No. They won’t figure that bit, but I may have a bit of a reputation with the ladies - and after singing up on stage….well, I’d have to be blind not to pull someone, wouldn’t I?” John peers out from under his blonde lashes, and Sherlock can’t resist kissing him once more.

“For luck, John! Come along - we will walk. The Underground is a crowded madhouse since the Germans started with air raids. It’s not far to Montague Street.”

John replaces his cap, while Sherlock buttons up and sets his hat at a rakish angle. John reaches over, straightening it with military precision.

“Lead on then, Lieutenant.” John squares his shoulders and follows Sherlock out into the night.


	4. ...Make My Dreams Come True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson gets an offer from Helen, then makes a trip to Montague Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating has gone from M to E with this Chapter.

Sherlock led John out through a warren of back hallways, with the intention of escaping via the service entrance. In his eagerness, he didn’t make allowance for the others who might be attempting a similar move at the time - namely, Major Glenn Miller and the Army Air Forces Band, featuring John’s erstwhile dance partner, Helen O’Connell. 

“Johnny!”

“Miss O’Connell, m’am - thank you for inviting me up there. I never thought I’d ever have the chance to sing with you and Glenn Miller! That’ll be one to tell the grandkids about some day.”

“Please, call me Helen, you dear man. And it’s me who should be thanking you - I just can’t do the torch song bit the way you and Bob do it. You know,...we are going to be here for about a week engagement - I could really use the help. Would you be interested, Captain? I’d ask Glenn.”

“Jeez - I don’t know what to say. I’m very flattered, but…”

“He’ll do it”, Sherlock cuts in.

“What?”

“Major Miller would have to ask Colonel Moran - he’s J..Capt. Watson’s CO - but I’d wager the Colonel would spare him for for a few days, if it keeps our Allies entertained. Maj. Miller could ask him tonight - Moran’s right out there on the balcony.”

“Oh, that’s just darling of you - I’ll just go speak to Glenn.”, Helen grasps John’s arm at the elbow as though he were the one to suggest it. 

Sherlock puts his hand on John’s shoulder, in a slightly possessive manner, saying, “Goodnight, Miss O’Connell.  We’ll have to be back to base for curfew!”

“Oh, of course - how rude of me to keep you both. G’night, Captain! And you too, Lieutenant!”

 

John and Sherlock slip out the service door and head off towards Russell Square. Once they are out of earshot of the hall, John stops and turns on Sherlock.

“What was the meaning of all that? ‘The Colonel can spare me’? I’m a bloody doctor - not meant to spend the war as a crooner for the Yanks.” John’s expression is positively mulish.

“Well - not the whole war - but perhaps just a week?  And since you obviously can’t be travelling back and forth to the base for that entire week, you will just have to stay with your pal from Uni who has rooms on Montague Street, won’t you?”, Sherlock looks at John hopefully.

John sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face, “Nevermind that we barely know each other or that you signed me up to sing in front of a huge, unruly mob of American Servicemen every night….I must be crazy to let you do these things to me.”

“Let’s go to mine, then. Unless you wish to discuss the crazy things you will let me do to you on this street corner.”

“You can’t say things like that without expecting to get snogged in a darkened alleyway, never you mind walking to Montague Street”, John closes in on Sherlock, pressing him back towards an empty skip.

Sherlock whispers, “Snogged? No idea what that means, but unless it is rude slang for me wrapping my lips around your prodigiously large cock, then I promise - the walk to Montague Street will be absolutely worth it.”

“Cor! Holmes, I can barely walk as it is!”, John stops, staring nearly paralysed with want. 

“Ah - then you’re not opposed to fellatio! Good! I hear it’s an excellent cure for stage fright too. Come on, John!”

* * *

London during the blackouts is otherworldly. Few people are out, and those who are focus intensely on navigating the darkened streets. Illumination is transient - the occasional directional lantern and the headlamps of passing automobiles. John follows Sherlock’s certainty and unerring sense of direction. Several blocks away from Montague Street, they realise that nothing prevents them from holding hands.  No one would see it, and those who did might think that they were guiding each other. Their hands slip together, the furtive twining of fingers and palms is a potent messenger of desire, even when covered by shadow.

The immense classical bulk of the British Museum rears up in the darkness; Sherlock’s pace quickens, as he fumbles for his keys. He lets them into the flat and locks the door. John removes his cap as he surveys the parlour and kitchenette beyond - papers everywhere, teacups balancing on stacks of books and magazines. The entryway table is a jumble of keys, gloves, and hats - including the one Sherlock just discarded. The mantel is covered with correspondence (some of it fastened to the mantelpiece with what looks like a jackknife), and various bits of taxidermy in glass cases.

Sherlock follows John’s darting gaze, saying, “Yes, well I have a woman who looks ‘round once a week - but she’s been..ah...on holiday.”

“For a month? How did you survive your basic training? I can’t sleep if my boots aren’t lined up, facing out. Jesus - is that a real human skull?”

“I promise to tidy tomorrow if you stay, now please - is there ANYTHING I can do to distract you from my filing system?”, Sherlock stands by the door; he has removed hat, coat and jacket - and his long violinist’s fingers loosen his tie. He turns nervously to the bar cart to offer John a drink, “Do you want…”. 

“Yes, I want…”, John licks his lips, “Come here” he whispers roughly. Sherlock crosses to John, tugging on the buckle of his belt as John starts unbuttoning his tunic and sheds his tie. John lays each discarded piece of his uniform in a neat pile on the Chesterfield sofa. He unlaces his dress shoes and Sherlock whines in frustration, “Why are there so damn many buttons on your pants? Is it some sort of chastity device?”

“Not very effective one, is it?” he stands as Sherlock bares John’s heavy, erect cock.

Sherlock stares - open-mouthed - at John’s naked form, incapable of forming words.

“Bedroom?”, John asks, hopefully.

Sherlock gestures to the left but does not move. John laughs brightly, grasping Sherlock’s bicep - and manhandles him through the doorway and onto the wide, high bed. The bedroom - John is pleased to note - is in far better order than the parlour. Sherlock quickly shucks his clothes down to his pants, tossing them onto a chair in the corner, as John watches eagerly. 

He kneels up on the bed and reaches for John who comes without a second’s delay. Their kisses rapidly gain in messy urgency, as the two men roll across the bed. John strips Sherlock’s pants as he traces the firm curvature of his arse. Sherlock ducks down to cover John’s nipple with his lips, teasing him with tongue and teeth until John rolls him over and pins him down.

“Sherlock, what do you want?”

“Oh God, John...I want everything, everything”, he writhes against John’s restraint.

“Jesus - this is going to be over in 5 minutes if you don’t lie still. How about - what do you want first?”, John is panting on top of Sherlock who responds immediately.

“I want to taste you - your cock in my mouth - I’ve wanted to suck you from the moment you pressed against me in the loo”, he reverses their positions and begins kissing a trail down John’s muscular chest.

“Oh, hell...Holmes,...Oohhhhhhh!”, John’s fingers find purchase in Sherlock’s curls, while he circles the head of John’s penis with his tongue. His long fingers  _ just _ wrap around the base. Sherlock works his lips down from the crown over its length as it tapers.  He swallows around John’s girth when he takes him deeper. Saliva lubricates his grip, as he strokes the base and licks the tip, where the foreskin has retracted. John lays, propped up on his elbows to watch Sherlock working him. His hands fist the sheets, in an effort not to thrust into his partner’s beautiful mouth.

Sherlock brings John to the edge several times, without allowing him to topple over. John closes his eyes, his whole body shakes as he curls his toes into the bedding and moans desperately, “Please! Oh, please - Sherlock - you beautiful, brilliant man!”, John whispers urgently, “Oh God, I'm...I’m coming.”

Instead of pulling back, Sherlock draws John deep again-temporarily blocking his windpipe as he massages John's shaft with his lips and the muscles of his throat. John’s orgasm hits with blinding force and he comes calling Sherlock's name. 

Sherlock flops down next to John, tucked under his right arm. He pushes the curls off his forehead and waits. When John comes back to himself, he pulls Sherlock into an embrace, “Oh, you prodigy. That was amazing...best of my entire life.”

“Quite a compliment coming from Three Continents Watson - I assume you have more than adequate comparative data.”

“Where did you hear…?”

“Your men are devoted to you, if completely indiscreet. And I rather think one or two of them would like to put your international reputation to the test personally - even though I doubt they could handle all of you between them. Your cock is glorious.” Sherlock drags his fingers along the length of John's shaft and feels him twitching with re-arousal. 

“Let's give him a moment and focus on you right now”, John traces the planes of Sherlock's stomach and circles around his inner thigh. 

“John, I nearly came rutting against you, I assure you - the time for foreplay is passed, get on with it.”  


John smiles wickedly, twisting Sherlock underneath him, “I mean to.”.


	5. ...A Thirst for Love Divine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are liking this story as much as I am enjoying researching it. <3

_ “ John, I nearly came rutting against you, I assure you - the time for foreplay is passed, get on with it.” _

John smiles wickedly, twisting Sherlock underneath him, “I mean to”.  He follows Sherlock’s cheekbones and the curve of his lower lip with steady hands. John’s lips play across the hollow of his throat; he listens to Sherlock’s moans become more urgent. If they only have one night - for there is no promise that Maj. Miller will persuade Col. Moran to lend out his surgeon as a tenor - Watson wants to leave no part of Holmes untasted. But the Lieutenant is growing restive under such calm, focused attention. John's tempo increases as he claims the man laid out before him like a classical sculpture, with tongue, teeth, and restless hands teasing every available centimetre of Sherlock’s skin.

John raises himself, balancing on one arm as he grinds against Sherlock, slowly and deliberately. His spit-slicked fingers wrap around the velvet hardness of Sherlock’s cock. John varies long strokes with cupped palm sweeps over the sensitive head. Sherlock thrashes back and forth on the pillow, trying to stave off the orgasm he can feel building in his thighs. When he sees how close Sherlock is, John whispers, “That’s it, you gorgeous creature. You are stunning like this - on the edge, ready to lose control for me. So, do it. Come for me, that's an order, Lieutenant. Come, Sherlock.” John sucks hard on Sherlock’s left nipple as his pleasure breaks over him. He curls into John’s body, riding out his orgasm while digging violinist’s fingers into John’s strong back, locking his legs around John’s waist, trapping John’s hand between them. Sherlock pulls John down on top of him and almost tearfully whispers, “John”.

John continues to stroke the lines of Sherlock’s body, gentling him,“Just amazing. Brilliant.”

Sherlock gradually releases his stranglehold and lies bonelessly draped on the mattress, “I may be wrong, but isn’t this the part where I praise you to the heavens, not the other way around?”

“I assumed you were overcome, you berk”, John kisses Sherlock and rolls off to his side.

“A partially accurate deduction.”

“Partially accurate? OK, what are the other reasons for your silence? It’s quite unlike you.”

“The other reason: I am attempting to calculate the number of times we can do that again before you return to your command, based on average refractory periods of males in their mid-to-late twenties, time to completion for the various sex acts performed, and the additional preparation time required for you to enter me with your prodigious cock.”

John goggles at Sherlock.

“Well, you asked.”

 

* * *

 

Colonel Sebastian Moran is sitting in his study, swirling a glass of whisky, when the phone rings. He answers immediately and listens to the voice on the other end of the line before he speaks, “...the American either knew nothing more of the location and timing than I do, or he suspects something. I advise we find another avenue to exploit….To that end, I may have some news. I went to the American Red Cross club tonight and met a curious individual. A lieutenant, introduced as a member of the First Sealord’s staff, which is ground zero for Overload planning.   
It occurred to me that he might have been - let’s say  _ amenable  _ if I used a simple and fairly direct means of prying out his secrets. But, before I could engage, he was wooed away by one of the Captains in my command”, Moran laughs self-deprecatingly.

“Well - the more fool him, Sebastian.”

“My Captain Watson  _ did  _ have the advantage of being an honorary member of Glenn Miller’s band for the night, in fact - Miller asked me to lend him the tenor for the rest of their week engagement. If lending Watson brings Holmes back in, it would be a fair trade.”

“Who?”

“The lieutenant on Admiral Pound’s staff - Lt. Sherlock Holmes. You know him?”

Somewhere north of Paris, Jim Moriarty places his champagne coupe on his desk carefully, “William Scott Sherlock Holmes, youngest brother of Mycroft Holmes of the MoD...I know him, Sebastian”.

Moran can hear the excitement in Jim’s voice - excitement and something else that makes the battle-hardened soldier feel...cautious. He is measured in his reply, “I think I could get some intel out of Holmes.”

“Sebastian, thinking is not really your area...however, you made the right tactical decision here. Curious that you haven't made yourself better acquainted with your Captain...an odd omission for someone of your...tastes. One that you should rectify. It's been a long time since I visited London. I hear Rainbow Corner is the first port of call for any GI with 24-hour leave.”.

“Sir, the risk…”.

“There is a greater risk of the Holmes boys catching us out. Engage your Captain - leave Holmes to me. I will call on Sunday night, he better be there. Don’t disappoint me, Sebastian.”

“Sir.” Moran’s line goes dead, and he wonders, not for the first time, whether the payday will be worth the risk in the end. 


	6. Interlude

On base or off, Captain John H. Watson wakes just before 06:00 hours. He is a military man - and such behaviours become quite ingrained  - which is why he is surprised that, while he is ready to face the new day before reveille - his bedmate is decidedly not. John would not mind a lie in  _ (on top of, next to, around)  _ with Sherlock, but sleep is the last thing on the soldier’s mind if he remains in bed. He experimentally nudges Sherlock to wake him, but it only prompts the still-sleeping Lieutenant to pull John closer and wrapped in his arms more tightly. John abandons his efforts to rouse Sherlock and idly daydreams about last night: the adrenaline rush of singing with Glenn Miller, their stolen kisses in the lav, walking holding hands through the dark and silent city, the surprising chaos of Sherlock’s lodgings…and the utter lack of any other naval paraphernalia besides the gangly six-footer draped on top of him. John looks around the bedroom - there is an open wardrobe with nothing but ‘civvies’, as far as John can see. Sherlock seemed at home with the Army brass, but there were no other Royal Navy personnel at the Corner. And what of Sherlock’s seeming flirtation with Moran? Granted - the man is a free agent - and he seemed to flee from Moran’s attentions once John sang to him - but prior to that moment, John remembers the thrill of jealousy when he saw Sherlock clearly flirting with the Colonel. And then, there is the Colonel himself...Watson is under Moran's command, but there is something that John distrusts about the man. John’s CO, Major James Sholto, has tried to shield the soldiers in his command from the attention of the Colonel - Sholto never specified why, but John does trust James. 

“John, what’s wrong?”, while John was following this train of thought, his body tensed under Sherlock, waking him.

John looks into Sherlock’s eyes - which show only concern - and his heart wants to soften, but trust does not come easily to John. He speaks calmly as he ruffles Sherlock’s curls, and asks the question that has been building in his mind, “Lieutenant Holmes? Who are you anyway?”

Sherlock is immediately on the defensive and starts to pull away, “What do you mean?”

There is an edge in John’s voice on reply, “I’m not a genius, but I am career military...and I think it’s pretty clear that you aren’t. Are you even really in the Royal Navy?”

“What would lead you to that conclusion?”, Sherlock is surprised to be caught but also delighted that John is intelligent and observant enough to make the deduction.

“I notice you didn’t say you  _ were  _ Royal Navy”, Sherlock continues to stare in silence, so John continues,”You slept past 06:00, you draped your clothes over a chair instead of folding them, you put your hat on at an angle - that’s the sort of thing that is beaten out of you in Basic Training. There is not a single other piece of Naval paraphernalia anywhere in your apartment. I see plenty of civilian clothing, but the only uniform is the one on your back last night….any one of these things, might just be a quirk - but taken all together? You aren’t Royal Navy, but you were able to put on a convincing show to some very senior people. Who are you?”.

During this speech, John sits up against the headboard; his hands are fisted into the sheets at his waist. Sherlock can tell that he is about to get up and dress, and that doubt is creeping over John, bringing with it a mistrust of anything Sherlock said or did the night before.

“It is my real name, John. Well,...”, Sherlock takes a breath like he is deciding something, “William Scott Sherlock Holmes - that’s the whole of it. But I go by Sherlock in everyday life...which, as you deduced, is not aboard a naval carrier”, he sighs, “Would you believe me if I told you it wasn’t important?”.

“I don’t think so.”

“How about the opposite - if I told you it was critical to national security?”

“It sounds like you are reaching - but it is more likely than...say...a uniform fetish.”

Sherlock grins, “That’s not to say I don’t have an uniform fetish, at least after last night...but no”, he pulls himself up next to John, and runs his hand over John’s chest then down to the edge of the sheet, “I can’t tell you everything, not yet. But never doubt that it  _ is  _ important that I’m Lieutenant Holmes, a member of the staff of the First Sea Lord.”

“Are you a…”, John is cut off when Sherlock’s fingers push below the blankets, over John’s lap.

“And every last thing that William Scott Sherlock Holmes said to John Watson last night was true. I want you to stay with me here if Moran gives you leave. I never bring men to my home”, Sherlock grips John’s erection firmly, and begins to stroke, “I don’t...DO this, but I chose to take this chance the moment I met you. I can’t explain it, I don’t understand it, but I know I want you, John.”

And in that moment, John Watson takes a chance, too - he decides to trust Sherlock Holmes.


	7. Every Time We Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to his command. Sherlock meets to debrief with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club, though he is shockingly late for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This lovely fic prompt was going to be a quick song and dance, but I've found - much to my surprise - that there is a longer tale to tell about the planning of Operation Overlord, Sherlock the Spy, and Moran/Moriarty... So I do hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed researching it, listening to period playlists, and reviewing WWII history that I'd have otherwise forgotten.  
> Cheers!

“Where are you going?”, Sherlock pouts as John pulls back the covers and attempts to leave his bed. He quickly yanks John back and pins him with his body.

“Two equal priorities, Lieutenant. I haven’t had a proper bath in a decent tub since the Nazis invaded Poland, and if I am not fed soon - I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“Best to start with the bath, then. I don’t think I have anything in”, Sherlock is trying to distract John by nibbling at the sensitive skin behind his ears.

“Tea?”, asks John hopefully.

“I  _ am  _ British, though I hope you take it black, or maybe just with sugar?”

“Milk would be too much to ask”, John rolls his head back against the pillow, “Well, at least you are genuinely British, not a German spy. No sense in adding collaboration with the enemy to the list of offences meriting court-martial from last night. That would really be the limit.”

“A court-martial for getting your cock sucked?”

“By another man, yes. And not just sucked, or have you forgotten already?”

“Maybe I have, how will you remind me?”, Sherlock allows John to roll him over so that he is positioned under him.

“By only staying in the bath until the water gets cold - you can join me if you like”, John kisses Sherlock, “But only if you bring tea!”

 

It is a measure of just how much Sherlock fancies John that he finds himself in his untidy kitchen, contemplating kettle and teapot while scouring the shelves for his favourite tea. Moments later, he enters the bath grinning, nude - and carrying a tea tray.

 

Later, as the afternoon sunlight slants through the bedroom curtains, John has collected himself to go. Sherlock petulantly refuses to leave the bed as John laces up his boots and adjusts his belt.

“Why do you have to go? It’s obvious that Moran will lend you to Glenn Miller - couldn’t you just call back to your command to confirm it?”

“Let’s...not jinx it. If I am ‘on loan’ - will I see you at the club?”

“Obviously.”

“And if not…”   
“We don’t need to discuss it, you will be.”

“Sherlock. If I’m not...I am glad we had last night. I’m with the 50th Northumbrian,...”

“John - trust me - I will always be able to find you. Now go, if you must...hurry back to me”, Sherlock ducks his head, blushing furiously - such sentiment was beyond what he thought possible - but Captain Watson brings this out in him. With one last lingering kiss, John is gone.

* * *

Hours late for tea, Sherlock resentfully hails a cab to take him to Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. John left his bed only an hour before - Sherlock had to send one of the more reliable members of his homeless network to bring them some food, as John discovered after their evening and morning exertions that Sherlock didn't have so much as a packet of biscuits in.

When he arrives in the Stranger's Room, Mycroft gives Sherlock a comprehensive once-over.

“I did say, brother mine, that this was not the time nor the place to allow yourself to be distracted by a handsome face in olive drab, did I not?”, Mycroft frowns.

“The American colonel is no more a spy than Princess Elizabeth, Mycroft. But I did find cause for concern with one olive drab suit in particular: Col. Sebastian Moran.”

“It was not Moran to whom I was referring. But, I know Moran.”

“And?”

“And do you have  _ cause  _ to be concerned with Sebastian Moran?”

“Not as such, there were a number of unreliable indicators,...tics almost. He's hiding something. He was very interested in me when my post was revealed.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I'm sure it was your post that had Moran panting after you. I know Moran...I know what he likes and it is a shade obvious that he at least attempted to seduce you, yet you didn’t spend last night in the Colonel’s quarters.”

“I hardly think that is something worthy of notice - every now and again, one must tend to the needs of...transport.”

“Quite”, Mycroft indulges Sherlock, not believing him for a moment, “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself sufficiently, and if you could now focus on the matter at hand, the situation is rather pressing.” Mycroft stands. He hesitates before delivering the information, “I’ve had some alarming news from Brest today.”

“You can’t get any more delicious chickens?”

Mycroft pinches his forehead, between the eyes,“Those come from Bresse, near Lyon. Brest is a naval town in Occupied France. An operative we have had eyes on for some time is on the move: James Moriarty is in London - or will be, by Sunday. We have reason to believe he is the lynchpin of this operation - he’s a freelancer, Sherlock.”

Sherlock studies Mycroft’s face, “And you think Moran is involved?”

“He would need someone on the inside, someone he could feel...comfortable with. Someone highly placed - so that his curiosity would not seem suspicious. The American Colonel fit the bill - he was once a bit of a loose cannon prior to his service, he worked for the American bootlegger...Capone. But it would appear he has genuinely turned over a new leaf, which leaves us with…”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran.” Sherlock’s mind is already racing ahead.

“As you say”, Mycroft studies his brother, “It wouldn’t do for your interest in bringing down Moran to be anything other than professional, Brother mine.”

“Obvious.”

“I only mention this because I know you spent much of last night and all of today in bed with an RAMC Captain who is part of Moran’s command. Captain Watson has something of a reputation, in fact.”

Sherlock will never tire of resenting Mycroft’s aggravating omniscience, “He’s not involved with Moran, never has been.”

“I never said he was  - but he has had several liaisons which, under normal circumstances would merit multiple court-martials and a blue note discharge...not the least of which is his a long-term ...relationship of sorts with his CO, Major James Sholto.” Mycroft pauses to gauge the effect that this information has had on his brother. “Well, who knows what the developments of last night mean for their involvement? And, of course, he will soon be moving down to Portsmouth in preparation for the Overlord Operation...perhaps a bit of a moot point after all.”

Sherlock’s face freezes in a bored mask, “What would you have me do?”

“Get whatever you can on Moran. If Moriarty enters the field of play - he is dangerous, brilliant, more than a match for you so proceed with an abundance of caution. But stop their plans to sell our secrets to the Nazis….that is all.”

Sherlock leaves the Diogenes, and Mycroft settles back into his chair - perhaps he should have told his brother that Watson and Sholto’s affair was long past, but it wouldn’t do for Sherlock to remain distracted. Judging by the more than 13 tells indicating romantic attachment, as well as the thoroughly shagged out expression on his brother’s face, Mycroft reasons that keeping Sherlock in the dark as to Watson’s status was a strategic necessity. With a satisfied smirk, he notes the time then rings for brandy and the evening papers.


	8. They Will Ever Haunt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and John receive their orders.

John reports into his duty officer with minutes to spare at the end of his 24-hour leave. Captain Boroughs examines the papers on his desk, “Capt. Watson? I have a note here from the Colonel. He should be in the officer’s mess, asked to see you when you returned.”

“Thank you, Boroughs - did he give a reason?”

Boroughs looks at Watson with a raised eyebrow, as if any of the commanders was likely to provide reasons on their best day.

“Right - thank you.”

John plans to head for the officer’s mess after dropping his bag in the barracks. He straightens his tie, and adjusts his cap in the mirror, when he hears a voice behind him say, “You are looking ship shape in Bristol fashion, Captain.”

“Major Sholto, Sir.”, John salutes him. For a moment, his mind races - wondering if Sholto knew that John spent his leave with the Navy Lieutenant. But Sholto’s smile is kind and fond - reminding John of an earlier time when James Sholto was so much more than simply a commanding officer to John Watson.

“I heard from your men that you had quite an adventure, Watson. Singing with Major Miller’s swing band. They even suggested that you may have...er...won the affection of his singer, Helen Somebody-Or-Another?”

They are alone in the barracks, James approaches John more closely than he had in almost a year, “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that, John.”

James steps into John’s body and John freezes. For a moment, it seems that Sholto will try to kiss him. James inhales, bending close to John’s neck, scenting another man’s cologne mixing with the fragrance that is purely John, his skin and sweat. James pulls back, shock plainly readable on his face.

“James…”

“I’m sorry, Watson. I behaved in an unforgivably familiar manner.”

“Sir?”, James broke John’s heart when he ended their affair more than a year ago, but for all that -  John hates the look of pain he sees in Major Sholto's eyes. Unsure, John tries to get them back on a professional footing, “Colonel Moran left word with the Duty Officer that I was to report to him when I returned. You don’t know why, do you, Major?”

Sholto’s face goes dark, “I do not, Watson. But if you were ordered, you had best move along”, John salutes and turns to go. Before he leaves the room Sholto calls out, “John, be careful…”, John turns and nods, then continue to the Officer’s Mess.

* * *

 

Sherlock left the Diogenes Club in high dudgeon. Obviously, he has no claim on John Watson, yet he thought they both felt something beyond lust bursting like a Catherine Wheel over them. But if John was in a relationship with his CO, that would be more than Sherlock could bear. 

Sherlock never doubted Mycroft’s information, only his motives for providing it. It would not be beyond his brother's twisted ethical code to omit the detail that John and Sholto were no longer romantically involved if it suited Mycroft's purpose. If he feared Sherlock was losing focus because of John such carelessness with the truth would suit Mycroft’s purposes down to the ground. Sherlock thinks himself ridiculous to feel so proprietary over John Watson - they have only just met.  Yet, he knows that, if John is given leave to come to the club tonight, Sherlock's first order of business will be to corner his Captain and gather intel on relevant details of his current romantic entanglements, spying for Mycroft be damned.

Sherlock pushes all thoughts of John’s possible sin of omission and Mycroft’s probable duplicity to the back of his mind and prepares for battle - to uncover the secrets of Colonel Moran. He looks up and sees Mycroft’s state car pull into view, the window rolls down, revealing Anthea - holding another few suits of Royal Navy-issued uniforms and one US Infantryman’s battle dress for good measure. Sherlock gets in and they head to Montague Street.

* * *

John enters the Officer’s Mess and salutes his Colonel, “Capt. John Watson reporting, Col. Moran, sir. Duty officer told me you wanted to see me?”

“Ah yes, Watson. Stand easy, soldier. I just finished here, perhaps you could accompany me back to my rooms; I have a business proposition from one American Major Glenn Miller that I need to discuss with you”, Col. Moran laughs, slapping John on the shoulder.

“Sir.”, John snaps a salute - inside he is brimming with excitement. Surely the Colonel wouldn’t waste his time if he weren’t going to be granted leave to sing with Miller?  

As John follows Moran back to the Colonel’s quarters, his excitement gives way to uneasiness. Why would Col. Moran need to see John in his quarters to tell him about Miller’s request? He stands at parade rest in front of Moran’s desk; Moran pours them each a finger of whisky and walks between John and the desk to hand it over. 

“The King”

“The King, Sir.”

“I was there, you know. When you sang with Miller. Impressive. Made me wonder what other hidden talents you possess”, Moran’s hand traces Watson’s epaulette.

“Sir?”, the Colonel invades John’s personal space. Watson keeps his eyes front, and tries for humour, “Rugger for my Uni - other than that, no surprises here.”

Moran stands toe-to-toe with Capt. Watson removes the glasses from their hands and places them on the desk behind him, “Watson, such modesty...but I wonder...”

“Colonel Moran, Sir! Colonel Braithwaite is in the war room for the briefing, Sir!”, Moran’s mouth twitches in a scowl as Maj. Sholto breaks the tension of the moment. Sholto's eyes are deliberately pointed away from his CO and the Captain.

“Thank you, Major. A moment, Sholto - I need you to sign alternative service leave papers for our Captain Watson. He’s joining the Yanks’ musical company as a crooner for a week. Have my secretary draw it up”, Moran dismisses Sholto with a nod, he does not notice Sholto’s reluctance to leave, nor his loaded glance towards Watson.

Moran continues, circling John like a shark, “Watson, you will have leave for the entire week, with the expectation that it will be used to rehearse and perform with Maj. Miller’s band. Have to keep our Allies sweet, after all.”

“Very good, Sir.”

“I look forward to seeing more of your performances at Rainbow Corner”, Col. Moran whispers into Watson’s left ear, “Dismissed.”

John pivots and walks out, infinitely grateful to the Yanks for the interruption and the excuse to avoid Moran for a week. But more than any of this, John licks his lips as his mind drifts back to a handsome set of green eyes that eagerly await his return.


	9. “Bring to my Soul a Longing…”

Sunday afternoons are quiet at Rainbow Corner. The band doesn’t play Sunday, so John has an opportunity to rehearse for his official Miller Band debut. When John and his rucksack enter the practice room, Helen lights up, “Capt. Watson - so glad our Allies could spare you. I’m sure you know Glenn, let me introduce you to the rest of the boys.”, Helen manoeuvres John through the mixed crowd of military and civilian session musicians, holding the captain firmly by the elbow.

They run down a few charts, including  _ Amapola,  _ and  _ Embraceable You,  _ and Helen helps him with phrasing _.  _ John’s first solo is  _ This Time the Dream’s On Me;  _ he can read ready approval in Helen’s eyes, but on the second run-through, he hits his stride - because now a certain Naval Lieutenant is standing at the back of the room. Miller gives them a break before running the second half, and John turns immediately to Sherlock, who quietly slips out into the hallway.

“You came!”

“Obvious - said I would.”

“I have a week’s leave - a whole week, Holmes...Sherlock”, John is giddy with excitement, but Holmes cold response catches him wrongfooted.  Awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck, he asks, “Does your offer still stand? To put up your...uh...mate from Uni?”

Sherlock crushes out a cigarette with unnecessary force, “Depends. You know I still have a mission here, John?”

“Of course, I…”

“And nothing can come between me and The Work….Nothing can compromise nor distract me...from…”, Sherlock tries to maintain his cold exterior but stumbles when he sees the flash of hurt in John’s eyes. He takes a sharp breath, then says plaintively, “John, is there...are you involved with someone else? Major Sholto?”

“No! How did you…”

“Never mind how - I can’t have...you, if you are personally compromised by my investigation”, Sherlock’s voice darkens, “and I very much want to have you, Capt. Watson.”

“I’m not. I mean...yes, I was involved once with Major Sholto - that is true. But it ended more than a year ago. ….Nothing has happened since.”

Sherlock gauges John’s hesitation before his last sentence, “You hesitated - something has happened, since just last night”, Sherlock steps closer to John, smelling whisky over the scent of John, overlaid with traces of his own cologne and soap. 

“Maj. Sholto is a good man and good CO; I don’t imagine an investigation will uncover anything untoward. But, James has my loyalty, Sherlock - not my heart...not anymore.”

“Interesting. Do you feel the same about your colonel?”

John swallows carefully, and when he speaks, his tone is cautious and measured, “Moran. Moran is what happened since last night”, he looks up at Sherlock who steps closer to John, “At first, I thought he just wanted to tell me about the..” John gestures, “...the whole Glenn Miller thing. But then he poured me a drink and stood close...too close. Not like a drill-sergeant, in-your-face close, but... _ close.  _ Sholto...he interrupted, he seemed...worried that something might get out of hand...not that Moran noticed, but….”

Sherlock removes his hat and runs his fingers through his curls in frustration, “I don’t... if Moran is after you, he must be...aware of a few things that I’d rather he didn’t know. I would understand, John, if this gives you pause and you want to make other arrangements.”

“Are you mad?”

“It could be dangerous….”

“Sherlock. Sod danger, I’m here if you want it.", John reaches for Sherlock, but Sherlock pulls back, " Christ! Unless you don’t want….if I will be a distraction….”, John trails off, embarrassed.

Sherlock wraps his long fingers around John’s biceps and drags him into the adjacent janitorial closet. He kicks the door closed and his mouth is on John’s, “My God, John! Distract me, then. Ever since you left my bed, the thought of you has been like a metronome measuring off each hour until you return there.”, Sherlock’s lips chase John’s, nipping when they capture him.

John smiles, although the room is pitch dark, Sherlock can feel the curve of John’s mouth against his own. 

They kiss for another minute, then John sighs, “Oi - I need to get back to rehearsal. No performance tonight - come have dinner with me?”

“Do you mean to take me on a date, Captain?”

“A proper date...of course, I don’t know a single place in London, but if you pick the place?”

“I know a place. The owner owes me a favour, and he won’t question the uniform, either.”

“Fantastic. Meet me back here at 18:00?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock kisses John once more, then allows him to leave the closet first. He leans his head up against the door, wondering how he will manage a suspicious Moran, on top of careening out-of-control sentiment directed at one devastatingly handsome Army Captain.

 


	10. Date Night At Angelo's

17:00 hours - Sherlock sends a member of his homeless network to Rainbow Corner, with instructions for John.

John enters the small Italian establishment with his stomach nervously fluttering, especially when he looks around the room quickly, no Sherlock. Very few people are at Angelo’s this evening. After scanning for his Naval Lieutenant, John’s gaze returns to better assay the room - and that’s when he sees him. 

Sherlock Holmes has been standing next to the bar. Gone is false Navy uniform, and in its place - no man should have the right to look so mouthwatering. Sherlock wears a midnight blue suit with a razor-thin pinstripe. A tailor clearly spent a good amount of time fitting this to his lithe form and broad shoulders. His tie is dark, with cream and red running through the geometric pattern. The double breasted jacket lies smoothly over a perfect spread-collared shirt. A cream and red pocket square completes the look. His hair is pomaded back, drawing attention to his remarkable cheekbones and wide sea-foam green eyes.

Sherlock walks towards John slowly, “You said you wanted to take me on a proper date...I considered just staying in...uniform, but….tonight, I wanted to be myself - with you, not Lt. Holmes. I hope you are not disappointed?”, Sherlock looks shyly away from John.

“Disappointed? You look….I do not even have words to describe how you look right now. Of course - it’s good, it’s bloody brilliant  - and if I thought there was any hope in hell that food had made its way into Montague Street, we would be skipping dinner entirely”, John can barely restrain himself from touching Sherlock. He gestures to their table, where a single candle glows. Angelo himself comes bearing wine and the first course, which is exceptional - even with wartime rationing. John notices the other occupied tables gradually turning, and soon they are the only patrons and Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own.

“No one here will mind.”

Angelo comes over to refill their glasses, “Signore Holmes, dinner's on me for you and your inamorato.”

John starts, “You don’t have to…”

“Captain - It’s my honor. You know, he got me off a murder charge”, Angelo pats Sherlock on the back, as if to say ‘ _ You did so very well’ _ .

“Angelo was accused of a rather grisly murder - around the same time as Italy entering the War on the German side - coincidentally, I’m sure -”, the corner of Sherlock's mouth pulls down, giving the lie to his last words, “I was able to prove that at the time of the murders, Angelo was on the entirely opposite side of town, running an illegal gambling establishment.”

“He cleared my name!”

“I cleared it a bit.”

Angelo leaves, as John asks, “Why?”

“Firstly, he didn’t do it. Second - you haven't yet tasted his gnocchi.”

“Do I really seem so unobservant that I would believe food was your motivation? I’ve been to your home. Anyway, that's not what I'm asking. How were you even in a position to clear his name...a bit?”

“Before the war, when Scotland Yard was out of it’s depth, which was always, they called me. I was a Consulting Detective, only one in the world.”

“...and during the war, you…”

“I told you this morning.”

“....told me you couldn’t tell me anything…”

“Yes. That is the meaning of ‘My mission is confidential’. Do you think, somehow, that this rather salient fact was altered in the past 24 hours?”, Sherlock withdraws his hand.

John tries to bite back his temper, “24 hours ago, you didn’t even know I existed...neither did Moran. But in the last 24 hours, I spent the night with a handsome Lieutenant who, like some sort of Royal Navy Cinderella turned into a civilian at daybreak. My colonel damn near pounced on me - I was  _ rescued  _ like a bloody damsel in distress by my CO, with whom you briefly thought I was still involved. Let’s set aside the question of where you would even come by such information….And now, I am out on a date with one of the most devastatingly gorgeous men in all of London - who is so clearly out of my league….”, John trails off.

“Just in London?”

“Git. What I mean to say is: I know what it is to take risks - just being here with you is a monumental risk - dishonourable discharge, the end of practicing medicine, not to mention whatever Moran thinks he’s getting up to - but I can’t tear myself away. I won’t. Still - it would be easier if you could...trust me in return?”

“That implies that you trust me….when trust is not an easy thing for you. Do you?”

“It’s not….and, I do”, John says lightly.

Sherlock’s mind is like an intersection with too much traffic in it, he grasps at the first thought that passes, “Moran - John, you must avoid Moran, don’t let him catch you out alone again.”   
“Not bloody much I can do about it, Sherlock. He’s my Colonel. It’s just lucky that James burst in when he did.”

“Well, at least you are free of him this week.”

“I don’t know if that is true, Moran told me himself that he would be at the club. I was just hoping I could dodge away backstage before he tracks me down.”

“He told you he’s coming?”

“Said he wouldn’t miss it...that he wanted to ‘know what other secret talents’ I possessed.”

Sherlock winces, “I’m not letting him anywhere near you.”

“Sherlock…”

“No, John...I mean it…”

“Sherlock?”

“What?”

“Let me help”, John says mildly.

Sherlock looks sharply into John’s eyes, and he sees John’s heart written plainly there, “Let’s discuss it tomorrow. Tonight is for us,” Sherlock takes John’s hand across the table, “...but I promise, we  _ will  _ discuss it.”

“OK. Good. Then for the rest of tonight, I’ll just concentrate on you”, John soaks in the miracle of being out in public holding Sherlock’s hand. After a leisurely meal and an entire bottle of wine, Sherlock is slipping a few bills to the waitstaff and waving goodbye to Angelo’s mamma, who peeks out from the kitchen to press two swift kisses on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Shall we walk?”, asks John. His mind is drowning, helpless to the thrum of his desire for Sherlock. He considers pulling him into the darkened alleyway, to bruise Sherlock’s lips with his own tongue and teeth, to claim him again. Sherlock observes all of this, with an avid expression. “It’s only a very short way to mine, John.” 

* * *

Locked away once more in the flat on Montague Street, John undresses Sherlock with the care of a surgeon tending a wound, until Sherlock impatiently rips at his dress shirt.

“How can I want you this much?”, Sherlock whispers into John’s neck.

“Does it help to know that the feeling is entirely mutual? The moment we are spent - I start wanting you again.”

Sherlock’s lips trace the tendons in John’s neck. Naked, pressed against clean sheets - he watches John’s erection strain away from his body, “I  _ need  _ you.” Sherlock reaches across John’s body to grab the jar of vaseline and smooths some over his fingers to prepare himself. He slicks John quickly, then clambers astride his strong thighs. John holds himself still, allowing Sherlock to slowly dilate down over John’s substantial cock. He rocks gently, supporting his weight on John’s forearms until John is deeply seated inside him. Sherlock cries out as he rides John - his pomaded curls come free, trailing over his glistening forehead. Faster now, John meets Sherlock’s thrusts. His fingers at Sherlock’s hips will leave welts against pale flesh, but neither Sherlock nor John care. Sherlock’s movements become irregular; John flips him onto his back, without slipping out of the embrace of Sherlock’s body. On his knees above him, John’s hips swing and circle. He drives relentlessly into Sherlock, hitting his prostate on every third thrust. Sherlock thrashes like a mermaid under John. He can feel his orgasm cresting, the intense flood of sensation breaking over him in a tidal wave. John fucks Sherlock harder still, allowing the clutch of Sherlock’s body to push him over the edge. John comes, buried to the hilt in Sherlock. Sherlock’s cock pulses, striping his chest and John’s.

“So good, so very, very good..”, John smooths back Sherlock’s hair and pulls him closer.

“Can I keep you?”, Sherlock ducks his head onto John’s shoulder.

“For as long as you want me.”

“Take care, John. Because I will never not want you.”

John settles Sherlock back into his arms with a kiss, “Then here I’ll stay”. Sherlock shuts the light and sinks down into sleep, wrapped tightly in John's arms.


	11. Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know you over breakfast, with espionage before tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments (they keep me going) - I am considering making a Sherlock Holmes and John Watson AU series - Across Every Universe, because - for me - there isn't a universe where these two don't somehow fall in love (though, perhaps there are a few where they can't make it work).

Monday Morning - John and Sherlock, both in uniform, go out for a full English breakfast. To John’s surprise, Sherlock eats. They talk about little things - childhood, why John joined up after starting his medical training - Sherlock talks about some of his pre-war cases with the Yarders, and John can’t stop himself from calling Sherlock brilliant, perhaps more than once. Sherlock deduces that John has a younger brother, John admits a sibling with an air of mystery.

After breakfast, they walk through Regent’s Park - Sherlock takes a seat on an out-of-way park bench and John sits next to him.   
“So, you said we would talk...I still want to help, if I can.”

“I can’t tell you everything...I shouldn’t tell you anything, really. But - this affects you, you are being drawn into it. I won’t allow you to come to harm because I left you in the dark.”

“Is there a chance of that happening? I mean - I’m a soldier - hardly a helpless civilian.”

Sherlock smiles, “Not helpless at all, but this is bigger than just Moran - and the stakes are….enormous.”

“How so?”

“That is what I cannot tell you - I wish I could, but…”

“No, no. I am a soldier. I get orders and I march. We don’t ever get to ask ‘why’ - I understand that. Just….are you going to be….seducing Moran?”

“I...John.”

“No - I said I understand if it’s the job.”

“Perhaps not. Moran made a play for you - yet he knows who I am and he knows I’m on the staff of the Admiralty. The balance of probability suggests that Moran has been told to stand down with regard to me - which means a new player is about to enter the field.”

“And you have a suspicion as to who.” John does not state this as a question.

Sherlock considers for a moment, “His name is James Moriarty. Irish national but deported in the late-20’s, heavily involved in human trafficking before the war - mostly Russia, also in Germany. He served as procurer for a number of individuals who would later rise to power in Third Reich. He is farsighted enough that - I believe - his motivation was subsequent blackmail. Now Moriarty is looking for a more substantial payout - and so he is using his connections within the Nazi party to drive a bidding war for secrets regarding the strategy and order of battle for High Command in the European Theatre. He has someone on the inside, likely Moran - his former lover, who can gain access to information, but he is missing some key details.”

“You think he’s coming...here?”

“We have intel that he is...or shortly will be….in London.”

John takes a deep breath as he runs his hands over his face. Both Sherlock and John are surprised by a voice behind their bench, “Nicely done, Lieutenant. Shall we take your little Captain away to be shot for treason, or will you just leave him to Moran?”

“Who in hell…”, John splutters.

“Stop being tedious, Mycroft...”, Sherlock talks over John, affecting bored displeasure.

“Mycroft? Is this a _friend_ of yours, then?”, John levels a stern gaze at Sherlock.

“A _friend?_ I rather think Sherlock would consider me something more like an enemy...archenemy if he feels the urge to be particularly dramatic.”

“Well, thank goodness you are immune to such urges.”, John smiles at Mycroft without a hint of humour. Sherlock grins and arches a single eyebrow in Mycroft’s direction.

“Quite, Capt. Watson. Now, if you both would be so kind as to come with me. There is a matter of security clearance which we must quickly address.  I wouldn’t try walking away, regrettably, the snipers have their orders. Come now - we will maintain the fiction that I am merely here to take Lt. Holmes and his new….”, Mycroft smirked, “... _special friend_ to tea. Anthea?”

Mycroft turns on his heel, walking towards a dark blue late model Humber Pullman Limousine, and climbs in. Sherlock follows with John close on his heels and Anthea in front. No one speaks for the duration of the ride, which ends in some sort of underground bunker. John whispers to Sherlock, “Is this spy headquarters?”

“Hardly, this is my brother’s club. It has special security concerns, as His Majesty is also a member.”

“Wait - this…this... _Umbrella in a suit_  is your BROTHER?”

“Unfortunately,...”

“Sherlock”, Mycroft says, warningly.

“Well, Mycroft. You brought him here, you didn’t shoot him - so I assume we are not going to behave as though he’s a child from whom the biscuit tin ought to be hidden.”

“Steady on…”

“Be silent, both of you. Do not speak again until we are behind closed doors in The Stranger’s Room.”, Mycroft bites out.

John passes through the oak-panelled hallways over silent oriental carpets until they arrive at a massive door. Mycroft produces a key, and locks them all inside, “Wilder, Brandy - I think - for everyone, then you may retire until we have need of you.”

“Very good, Mr Holmes, sir.”

When the door has closed behind him, “Capt. Watson - you have...questions.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During WWII in the UK, there were two 'spy' agencies: the SIS - Secret Intelligence Service and the SOE - Special Operations Executive. Mycroft is the shadow head of both in this story, but his brother is SOE. IRL, the SOE's nickname was  
> [The Baker Street Irregulars](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Operations_Executive)


	12. Getting Sentimental Over You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first concert at Rainbow Corner, Jim returns to London.

_ By the time John needs to leave for Rainbow Corner, Mycroft has appraised him of the broad outline of Sherlock’s mission - to keep the information about a planned attack on German-occupied France out of enemy hands. John knows nothing of the battle plans themselves, aside from the codename “Overlord”. Mycroft informed John that he needed to maintain plausible deniability about his homosexuality - even if John couldn’t be blackmailed with the information, it could expose others. Sherlock does not even look at John when he suggests that Helen, the singer with Miller’s band, would not be opposed to providing some cover for John. While John thinks Helen is beautiful, he only has eyes for the Consulting Detective - but he won’t jeopardise Sherlock’s mission, so he agrees. _

 

John hesitates by the door to the Stranger’s Room in the Diogenes Club, glancing at Sherlock - besotted. Mycroft quietly observes his brother meet John’s eyes, and the adoration clearly reflected there. John blushes fiercely, then silently leaves.

_ Unique. _

The door swings closed - Sherlock turns to Mycroft, his expression is as open as Mycroft has ever seen - and more conflicted than Mycroft thought possible.

“The men in Moran’s command will all see heavy action in Overlord. Get him out.”

“Sherlock…”

“Get him OUT, Mycroft. I’ve never asked you for anything - well, I’ve never asked for favours. Gold and Sword Beaches are heavily defended. The balance of probably suggests that John will die if he goes…he’ll die, Mycroft...and I…,” Sherlock trails off. Mycroft looks on with frank alarm at the teariness in his little brother’s voice.

“Sherlock….I can’t.”

Sherlock covers his eyes, “No, you can - but you won’t. Sentiment. Foolish of me.”

“I won’t - but not for the reason you believe. Capt. Watson is a soldier. Dying for King and Country may seem unreasonable to you - but it is fundamental to John Watson - at the core of his beliefs. He wouldn’t thank you for sparing him.”

“He wouldn’t have to know!”

“He isn’t entirely unobservant, nor is he foolish. He would puzzle it out, and you would lose him anyway,” Mycroft watches - seemingly impassive - as the truth of his statement settles over Sherlock, “Plans are moving up because of the leak - he’ll be sent down to Portsmouth soon and there he will get his assignment. He’s a doctor - even though he is embedded with the platoon. Most doctors are being held in reserve for D+2, hardly storming the beachhead. John Watson  _ will  _ come through this,... but Sherlock - caring is not an advantage.”

“Caring is not an advantage. Why don’t you translate that to Latin and engrave it on the heirloom silver - much more appropriate than  _ viret in aeternum. _ ”

“I was thinking of adopting the motto of the Scotch branch of our family - last carried by Uncle Rudy  _ \- Nemo me impune lacessit”. _

“ _No one provokes me with impunity_? Well - why bother warning them?”

“Why indeed, brother mine.”

 

* * *

Monday night is the first full concert with Glenn Miller and the Army Air Force Band. John paces relentlessly in his backstage dressing room. He is a soldier - he has been where guns were fired at him in anger and he didn’t turn a hair. But tonight - the prospect of singing in front of a large Allied audience dries his throat. Helen O’Connell knocks and, before John can articulate a response, she enters wearing a dressing gown and little else.

“Last minute jitters? Don’t worry, Johnny - you are gonna knock’em out,” Helen moves in to adjust the knot of John’s tie, “I’ll let you in on a little secret - all you need to focus on is wooing and winning the girls. If the girls are impressed, the soldiers who are trying to make time will agree that you are the cat’s pyjamas. And - between your British accent and the one-two punch of your blush-and-smile, you will certainly win over the girls.”

John smiles nervously, realising that Helen just gave him the perfect entry to his cover-up flirtation. With a small, unconscious nod, he dials up the wattage in his smile and focuses in on Helen. Their eyes lock for a moment, and John watches her pupils dilate. He moves a bit closer to her, sliding his arms around her waist, “Any other pearls of wisdom to pass on,...Helen?”

Helen starts at the mention of her name, “Not for during the concert, no. A couple for after, though...you’ll have to make it through to find out what they are, soldier.”

Helen gives John a flirtatious peck on the cheek just as Sherlock walks in without knocking. He looks dashing in his Royal Navy dress uniform. As he removes his hat in deference to Helen, his eyebrow quirks.  John blushes scarlet, Helen glances between them but her face reveals nothing.

Sherlock sounds irritable, “I’ve come to wish you luck - or leg breaking, or whatever colloquialism is appropriate in situations like these.”

John smiles, “I hardly know - I’m an Army medic.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches, but he says nothing. 

“Well, if you boys will excuse me, I think I’ll go get dressed - don’t forget all that I told you, Johnny. You’ll be wonderful tonight”, Helen smooths her hands over John’s chest in a possessive gesture and leaves. John’s eyes follow her, so he is surprised when Sherlock sweeps him into his arms and backs him against the door. Sherlock presses against John, kissing him hard - nipping at his lips until John quietly groans.    


“I can still smell her perfume on you,” Sherlock growls.

“You  _ asked  _ me to do this!”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it. And it doesn’t mean that you are hers, either.”

“Does that mean I’m yours, then?”, John grins as Sherlock pulls back.

“Would that be...acceptable to you?”, Sherlock searches John’s face for any sign of hesitation.

“Do you really have to ask me that, Sherlock?”, John breathes against Sherlock’s neck, “I’ve been gone on you from the start.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses John again with affection. A voice from outside the door calls, “Five minutes, Capt. Watson!”

“So….”

“So...I’ll be watching tonight,..... and looking for my target. If I am called away, you have a key to Montague Street in your back pocket.”

“And here I thought you were just grabbing my arse…”

“That, too. Shame we only have five minutes, you’ll recall I said fellatio is the best-proven means of addressing stage fright - but it’s unlikely we will have enough time for me to prove my point.”

John gasps as Sherlock’s long fingers trace up his inseam, “More’s the pity, that.  What if I feel particularly anxious between sets?”, John asks.

“Once I leave, best not to mix after the concert,” Sherlock remarks with genuine regret, “I’ll see you at home,” Sherlock kisses John soundly once more and departs. Only after walking away does he realise that he called Montague Street ‘home’, their home. He shakes his head, as though to clear the fog of sentiment that seems to always descend when John Watson is concerned and exits through the service door so he can re-enter the hall. He knows from Mycroft’s agents within the High Command that Moran will be in attendance and that Moriarty is in England, but no additional intelligence is available.  Sherlock squares his shoulders, straightens his hat, and goes to join the crush of servicemen milling around the entrance to the club.

* * *

Jim Moriarty leans by the door of the American Red Cross club - he’s glad to be back in England, even if he must pretend to be a US soldier to do so. The American enthusiasm for the war meant the sheer number of GI’s has staggered all efforts to maintain control over them. SHAEF was pouring men and supplies into England - it was clear that something was coming, and soon. Perhaps this extracurricular intelligence gathering would be unnecessary, but Mycroft Holmes was a powerful man, and if Moriarty was certain of Nazi victory, he was also the sort of man who made contingency plans. Mycroft himself was unassailable, but Jim knows how to traffic in people - and Mycroft’s brother could be the pressure point that brings Mycroft to heel.

He crushes his cigarette and pulls out another. Moran entered more than an hour ago - now Jim is biding his time, awaiting the arrival of a certain Royal Navy lieutenant. His eyes are drawn to a handsome man with pale skin and dark hair. The lieutenant’s Royal Navy insignia wakes Jim from his decidedly pleasure-bent musing.  _ Sherlock Holmes - he’s gorgeous, no wonder Moran wanted to try again.  _ Casting aside his matchbox, Jim lopes up to Lt. Holmes and asks in a flat midwestern United States accent, “You have a light?”

“Why do you assume I am a smoker?”

“Oh,” Jim cocks his head, “...seem the type, I guess. Then again - there’s a nicotine stain on your fingers...and you look like it’s been too long since your last cig.”

“Excellent deduction - Corporal  _ Waters _ ”, Sherlock reads off his name tag.

Moriarty offers his hand, “Pleased to meet you, Sir - Corporal Jim Waters.”

“Lt. Holmes. Here”, Sherlock reaches across to light Jim’s cigarette, then his own, “Heading in?”

“Yessir.” Jim follows Sherlock into the club and up to the bar.

“Is this your first time in London, Waters?”

“Yes, but I’m a city boy - not so green as some of the others over here.”

“Chicago?”

“How did you guess?”

“I never guess. Not too many generations in Chicago though - you have at least one parent from ...Ireland - Galway, I’d wager,” Sherlock’s eyes flash with recognition, then briefly meet Moriarty’s before they return to scanning the crowd.

“You’re like a magician - you could have a show on the wireless.”

Sherlock frowns at the suggestion and Jim laughs before Sherlock can respond. Jim watches as several of the dance hostesses look Sherlock up and down, but Sherlock ignores them in favour of his cigarette and G&T. 

“Jeez, say what you will about the Brits’ rank and ratings - but you definitely get the best uniforms. When the British Navy is in port, can any American G.I. get a leg over?”

“Depends on who is in your sights this evening, Waters.”

The lights dim, and Glenn Miller’s Band is announced, to thunderous applause. Capt. John Watson walks out with Helen on his arm. Sherlock continues to banter with Jim as John and Helen settle into their first few numbers. Then, John solos on  _ This Time the Dream’s On Me _ , and Sherlock forgets to speak. John has studiously avoided Sherlock’s eyes as he sang, but one line - he delivers to Sherlock and no one else, “ _ It would be fun, to be certain that I’m the one/ To know that I, at least, supply/ the shoulder you lean upon _ ”.  Sherlock glances down into his drink and swallows. Jim misses nothing but pretends to be searching for his cigarettes. 

Sherlock offers him one from his case and Jim moves close to accept it, “You know, Lieutenant, I’ve identified my target. What do you reckon my chances are with our crooner there? Or would that make us belly cousins - did the Navy dock first?”   
“Miss O’Connell?,” Sherlock deliberately misinterprets Jim, “I  _ reckon  _ her Captain might have something to say about that - not to mention her Major.” gesturing at Maj. Miller.

“Oh. You think I mean her”, Jim is very close now.Even from the stage, John can’t help noticing how close the American is pressed against Sherlock, whispering in his ear, “We both know that there is only one thing on that stage that I find truly interesting,” Jim leans into Sherlock, and drops the fake accent, “...it’s the same thing distracting you, and poor Helen is not it,  _ Sherlock Holmes.” _

“You are mad, what’s to stop me from arresting you right now?”

“Capt. John Watson - or rather - the gun I’ve got trained on him while he’s on stage. And so, my dear, though I hate to miss Johnny’s singing, really I do, but I think I’d best be going.”

“You think I’d not sacrifice John Watson to stop you now?”

“I know that you would not risk peaceable relations with England’s Allies if I blow up this building.”

“You are prepared to do that - risk yourself, not counting all of the other people who will die.”

Jim whispers, furiously, “Die? That’s what people DO!,” Moriarty wraps a hand around the side of Sherlock’s throat, turning his face towards John on the stage, “That’s what John will do. Do give my regards to Mycroft and his... _ overlords.” _

“You aren’t looking for a source anymore”, Sherlock sounds certain.

Jim reaches over, adjusting the knot of Sherlock’s tie - blocking John’s view of his face, “Tell him - secretaries, they know everything,” with a tap to Sherlock’s cheek, Jim turns and leaves Rainbow Corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'belly cousin' is WW2 slang for two men who slept with the same woman.


	13. All Or Nothing At All

James Moriarty left Rainbow Corner unopposed. Sherlock cannot risk the safety of those within its walls over the possibility of Jim’s bomb threat being true, after all - Moriarty’s youth was spent involved in the Irish ‘Troubles’ - where bomb-craft was employed. Though Holmes is not certain Jim has the information he so casually alluded to - intel which could bring the Allied High Command to its knees - he did know the operation’s codename. And that alone was chilling. Sherlock bolts the rest of his drink and leaves determined to make contact with Mycroft as soon as possible. 

 

Col. Moran watched the interaction between Moriarty and Holmes, unobserved by either. Always the warrior, Moran found himself drawing parallels to fencing as they sparred. Holmes glittered with his accustomed brilliance, but Jim gave a masterclass in feints and parries. He doesn’t know how it was done, but he can tell that Jim bested Holmes without bothering to attack. If that is true, Holmes was no longer a potential source. Moran is unsure whether Jim still wants him to carry out the seduction of Capt. Watson. He looks into his glass of whisky as though he might find the answer floating in its depths -  _ best continue as ordered until the orders change, _ he decides.

 

John sits up on the bandstand through some instrumental numbers, watching Sherlock and Jim. A frisson of jealousy tingles down his spine while he watches the American engage and flirt. It’s what prompts him to direct a line of his solo towards Sherlock, even though he knows it is dangerous. It isn’t the looks the two men exchange. The American and Sherlock both look at each other with avidity, but only when the other looks away. That is what breaks John’s heart. Sherlock is intellectually jousting with the American; his enjoyment is plainly written over his face. It’s a measure of John’s discomfort that he finds himself hoping for Moriarty’s arrival to diffuse the situation. And then, just as suddenly - the American is gone, and Sherlock….is devastated. John may not have known him for long, but this he can clearly see. When Sherlock sweeps from the club, John’s hope that he was misreading the interaction plummets. It infuses his final number -  _ All or Nothing at All -  _ with a kind of haunting sorrow.

Off-stage now, John accepts the compliments of musicians and VIPs who are allowed into the band’s dressing area. Helen kisses his cheek - but gives him a look that promises much more before disappearing into her make-shift dressing room. John does not follow her. Instead, he shuffles into his own room to change out of his dress uniform and into battledress. So caught up in his thoughts is John, that he is nearly stripped down to his vest when he notices he is not alone. In the corner chair, Colonel Sebastian Moran sits with his feet up on the make-up table.

“Sir!” John salutes.

“Stand easy, Watson. You did a fine job, tonight. If you weren’t an equally fine medic, I’d say you missed your calling….permission to speak, Captain”.

“Thank you, sir. Glad you enjoyed the show.”

Moran approaches John, “I did, indeed. I did, indeed. I find myself particularly….blessed….to have so many talented men under me. Your Major, Sholto, for example - exemplary soldier, willing to sacrifice for those he commands - perhaps a shade too protective...or maybe just jealous?”

“Sir?”, John feels flushed. He does not like the direction this conversation is moving and belatedly realises that Major Sholto did not ‘accidentally’ show up just in time the last time John was alone with Moran. 

“Watson, I think you should accompany me to my ‘temporary barracks’ at the hotel. Don’t play coy, John - we are both men of the world”, Moran thumbs John’s lower lip as he caresses his jaw, roughly. 

“No, Colonel. I….can’t.”

“Nonsense - you think I’m unaware of your former relationship with James? This is who you are, you can pretend no differently”, Moran drops his hand, though he still stands chest-to-chest with John.

“I’m not. But I don’t share that...bond...with many men, sir.”

Helen clatters in on Major Miller’s arm, “Johnny! You were astounding tonight! Are you ready to come grab a bite to eat with me ‘n Glenn?”, batting her eyelashes at Moran - Helen rounds on him, “I’m sorry, soldier, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran, Watson’s Colonel - come to congratulate you all on an excellent performance.”

“Well, Colonel, we’re mighty glad you lent us a tenor, aren’t we, Hel?”, Major Miller smiles and Helen nods. “Watson, we have a little press thing - wanted to trot you out to show the cooperation between our allies, too. Once you’ve changed, will you meet us at the VIP balcony? Then dinner, I promise. We didn’t borrow you to starve you.”

“Sure, Major. I’ll hurry”, Watson catches up his shirt and glanced awkwardly at Moran.

“Well, I’ll be going then; you know where to find me, Watson. A pleasure to meet you, Major Miller, M’am”, Sebastian Moran leaves after passing John a matchbook from his hotel.

“‘Night, Colonel Moran!”, Helen sings out, closing the door behind Moran and Miller.   
John lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, “Jeez, Helen - that was the most perfectly timed dinner invitation in the history of food. I could kiss you!”

“What’s stopping you, Johnny?”

John blushes and grips his cap, but approaches Helen. “Aren’t I being a little forward?”

“Not nearly enough, you darling man”, Helen slides her arms around John’s neck, “Go on - impress a girl.”

John presses his lips against hers, the emotions of the past evening playing out between them. It started innocently but takes on a darker edge as John imagines Sherlock clasped in a similar embrace with the American soldier. John only stops when Helen pulls away, “Now, don’t you muss my lipstick, Captain. And don’t wear it, either”, Helen smiles and wipes a thumb over John’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, Helen. I forgot myself.”

“I rather think you did, Johnny - but it’s OK. Let’s get down to the press conference before Glenn reneg’s on dinner.”

John pulls on his cap and adjusts his tie in the mirror, “How do I look?”

“Like an army-issue dream boat, Johnny. Shall we go?”, Helen slips her arm under John’s.

“Let’s not keep the Major waiting.”

John emerges with Helen gripping his elbow, staring up into his deep cerulean blue eyes like a woman smitten. He does not observe Sherlock behind a pillar in the hall, nor does he notice when the consulting detective passes his hand over his eyes, turns on his heel and leaves Rainbow Corner.


	14. One O'Clock Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reports back to Mycroft, and shies away from sentiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As any fic author will tell you, I <3 Comments!  
> Thanks for all the feedback so far - only a few more chapters left...though it seems that every chapter in the outline splits before being posted, so ...

Sherlock walks down Shaftesbury Ave, in less than two blocks, the navy limousine pulls next to him. Silently, Sherlock climbs into Mycroft’s car to make his report. Mycroft’s frown, a masterpiece of its kind, deepens - Sherlock leans his forehead against the window.

“Brother mine, you had your quarry in abeyance, and yet James Moriarty walks the streets of London tonight. Did something pressing come up? A particularly difficult passage in Major Miller’s scoring?”

“Mycroft,...”

“Perhaps you experienced an urgent need to dance the Fox Trot?”

“You….”

“I fail to understand how you let him go. This required delicacy, Sherlock, _precision._ Surely my own brother has the necessary intellectual wherewithal to carry out what should have been an exceedingly simple instruction,” Mycroft snaps.

“Or maybe we were too late!”, Sherlock growls.

_“We?_ ”

“Fine! _I was_ too late", Sherlock says with exasperation, "My investigation focused on high-placed sources and traitors to the Crown. That is what intel suggested, that is where we thought - _I thought_ we should concentrate our efforts. Instead, Moriarty implied he pursued the expedient path of least resistance and seduced someone’s secretary. Now the invasion plans _may_ be mimeographed and waiting on his desk, filed under ‘aren’t-I-clever’”.

“You said ‘may be’...what evidence did he provide that he had done as he implied?”

Sherlock sighs, tilting his head and considering, “An affectionate note to yourself...and your ‘overlords’. ‘Secretaries - they know everything’ - or so he said”.

“You have doubts.”

“A codename isn’t the invasion plan. And - though he quite enjoys gloating - why even hint at his source to me? It’s illogical”.

“Quite. Well, I can have my agents make discreet inquiries amongst the clerical staff - not that I think there is much future in it. If Moriarty has a source and revealed it to you, no doubt the first place to look for that person is the bottom of the Thames.”

“Get me all of the personnel files - anyone who might have had clerical access to the plans, or even could have overheard the codename. Surely security isn’t so lax that it’s a lengthy list?”

“On the contrary, brother mine - planning is advanced. Not many know exactly what Overlord is, but the fact of it? The list of people who _know of_ Overlord will take you days to sift through,” Mycroft considers for a moment, “That is likely Moriarty’s true plan. Take you out of the equation, on a wild goose chase - and exploit whatever pressure point he has uncovered with impunity. Elegant.”

Sherlock presses his steepled fingers against his lips. “Two leaks…”

“Two?”

“No - not a wild goose chase - something John said to me about.. _.the canary in the coalmine_. Miners had no resources for sophisticated monitoring systems, so they used the birds as indicators of gas leaks because canaries were particularly sensitive to gas at low concentrations - ".

"Sherlock, are Northern mining practices really pillow-talk between you? Capt. Watson is more exceptional than I allowed - exceptionally what, I won't venture to say."

"Oh for pity's sake Mycroft - John said he always knew when his platoon would be moving up;  _the commander's secretary - Wilson -  was his canary in a coal mine._ When Wilson was too busy to socialise or some other rot, something big was on the horizon. The secretary didn’t need to give Moriarty the plans - plans that were _only just_ solidified - but he or she knew when Overlord planning was ‘heating up’. If you say that Overlord strategy _is_ advanced, then Moriarty is going to put Phase 2 into effect. He has no more need of his canary; he can put pressure on the true leak to get details on the invasion. That’s why he gave up his source - they are only a leading indicator, no longer required if the invasion is close to formalization”.

“It puts us no closer to revealing the leak, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns, then the fog lifts and he smiles broadly, “On the contrary, Mycroft. Moriarty clearly wants us to ‘clean up’ after him. He implicates the secretary and we try him or her for treason. But the secretary would have to be close to the actual pressure point, otherwise their value as a leading indicator would be limited. Don’t you see! Your Anthea would see increased volume in _your_ correspondence, or see that _you_ have more frequent meetings - but she wouldn’t be as exposed and attuned to changes in Admiral Cunningham’s diary”.

Mycroft smirked, “I strongly suspect Anthea would object to your analogy on many levels, and she probably knows the First Sea Lord’s diary better than Andrew, but I take your general point. Not every aide-de-camp is Anthea”.

“So!  Personnel files for all our possible canaries - restrict the first pass to those with direct access to the planning - either by virtue of their employer or by office geography - someone who would regularly back up Admiral Cunningham’s secretary, for example.”

“Where shall I drop you?”

“Are you mad? I’m coming with you so your staff doesn’t dally getting those files.”

“And what of your soldier?”

This pulls Sherlock up short - he had pushed John out of his mind after seeing him leave Rainbow Corner, wrapped in Helen’s arms. “If he even goes to Montague Street, which I doubt, he has a key. When last I saw him, he was quite...taken up with Miss O’Connell.”

“As part of the plan that _you suggested…_ ”

“Immaterial - He…,” Sherlock swallows, thinking of Moriarty’s snipers trained on John as he performed, “This...dalliance with John has been diverting, of course, but there is no room for that with The Work. Moriarty is playing an elaborate game - and I won’t be distracted again.”

“I’ll have Colton prepare your room, if you truly think it’s necessary.”

“It is,” Sherlock’s voice is flat and expressionless, “Thank you, Mycroft.”

“Of course, brother mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out - First Sea Lord at the time of Operation Overlord was Andrew Browne Cunningham, 1st Viscount Cunningham of Hyndhope, not Dudley Pound, so I need to backtrack and correct one of the earlier chapters that has Sherlock working for Pound.


	15. In A Sentimental Mood

Captain John Watson muses as Helen, Glenn and some of the other members of the band laugh and joke over dinner. Being part of a band is much like being part of a platoon - moments of belly-churning anticipation, flurries of non-stop action, and then practice-practice-practice alongside periods of mind-numbing boredom that were only alleviated by camaraderie within the group. Also, much like a platoon - you can be a member of the band for a long time before you are a part of the band. John is sensible of the distinction - he’s more Helen’s date than a true part of Glenn Miller’s Army Air Force Band - only he did not intend to be Helen’s date. He thinks back on Sherlock’s departure from Rainbow Corner and wonders if there is any point in going to Montague Street, after all. 

“Penny for your thoughts, Johnny?”

“Oh - the usual - was I off key on Tangerine, should I drink another whisky or switch to tea and sing another day…”, John smiles easily at Helen.

Glenn interjects, “On Tangerine - Yes - but not horribly. And 2: tea and whisky you can’t compare: so, whisky!”, the saxophone player tells Glenn that the car has come around, “Ah! We have a car - anyplace we can drop you, Captain?”

“Or would you like to come back to the hotel for a little nightcap?”, Helen asks.

“I should…’, John thinks of the empty quarters at Montague Street, “...a nightcap sounds lovely - but just the one, otherwise there’s no hope for  _ Tangerine _ .”

“OK, Cap - you’re the doctor.”

* * *

 

Helen and John enter the lobby arm-in-arm. Everyone is a bit tipsy. Helen heads to the bar with Art to get the next round. Alone for a moment in the lounge, John remembers why a nightcap was a horrible idea - as he comes toe-to-toe with Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Moran closes on John, his voice barely pitched above a whisper,“ Watson - I questioned whether you would come to me. I’m glad you saw reason - there will be no need for our pleasant working relations to be - compromised - by playing coy when you know this is something we both want”.

John swallows back anxiety at his insubordination, but replies, “Respectfully, sir - this is absolutely not something I want.”

Moran crowds Watson into a dark corner of the lounge - John can feel the fog of alcohol burn out of his system, “John - I think you will find that following orders is best.” He presses his lips against John’s, but John jerks away with a bite then pushes Moran away with some force.

“No, Colonel. Just...no.”

Moran steps back, his hand to his lip, and considers John for a moment. “You will regret this, Watson”, straightening - Moran exits the lounge, just as Helen comes looking for John.

“Johnny, wasn’t that your Colonel? Jeez - what was that all about?”

“I think...I think...I don’t know what to think. The Colonel...he wanted...something that wasn’t his, not even something that’s mine to give anymore.”

Helen looks down at the glasses and hands one to him, “John, I...I heard him. In your dressing room, I mean. I heard what Moran was trying...I got Glenn and told him we needed to bail you out. I heard everything.”

“Then you...know about me, too?”

“Yes, but honey - your kiss tells me that isn’t the whole story”, Helen glances up with a naughty expression.

John looks relieved, “Not the whole story, agreed.”

“Question is: what’s the rest of the story of this starry night?”, Helen grins, as the song “Story of a Starry Night” plays on the phonograph.

John smiles seductively, “Dance with me, Helen.”

John takes Helen in his arms; with his face tucked over her shoulder, he guides her around the small dance floor. The melancholy lyrics suit his mood. After the chorus, Helen asks, “So - who is he?”

“Christ, …..am I really that obvious?”

“I recognise the signs, soldier. It isn’t like you can talk about it with just anyone.”

“Too right,” John takes a breath, “The...uh...Naval Lieutenant?”

“Mercy! It doesn’t seem fair - two most handsome men in London and they are together. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.”

John grins, but soon his grin falls away, “I don’t think we are together...not anymore. I saw him… Tonight, from the stage, I saw him leaving after some American. I am supposed to be staying at his flat...but I…”

“Stay with me.”

“Helen, I can’t…”

“No - I know that isn’t how it’s going to be between us. It’s OK. My room has two beds if you will be needing two. Otherwise, we’ll curl up, sleep it all off, and see how things look tomorrow.”

“You would do that for me?”

“Sure will, Johnny.  What are friends for? But!  We are taking these”, Helen grabs their drinks, “...now up we go.”

* * *

Morning comes and John bolts awake from a nightmare: he is looking for Sherlock, who vanished in the mist. As he disappears, Moran emerges from the fog and begins to chase John towards the edge of a cliff.

John slowly takes in his surroundings - he looks down on the tousled blonde curls across his bare chest. A few more glasses of whisky had been sufficient for ‘tea-and-sympathy’ to take a far more carnal turn. John frowns. He slowly slides from the bed, grabbing his clothing and slipping into the connected bath. The face that greets him in the mirror looks rough: bloodshot eyes and a scruffy beard. He washes up as best he can and dresses, then returns to the room.  Helen is still sleeping, and - after a moment’s consideration - John decides to leave without waking her.

He grabs his wallet and turns Sherlock’s key over in his hand before shoving it into his pocket. His duffle is still in the dressing room at the Red Cross Club, so that is where he will go...maybe with breakfast on the way.  _ Definitely coffee _ , John thinks rubbing his face,  _ then sort out this utter mess, Watson...but definitely coffee first. _

John walks out into London’s wan springtime sunshine. He attempts to get his bearings, based on a quick conversation with the front desk and his vague memories of the night before. He is no more than a block away from the hotel when a navy limousine pulls alongside him. From its interior, Mycroft Holmes rolls down his window, and gestures for John to get into the car. John sighs, and does as Mycroft asks.

They roll along in silence for long minutes before Mycroft speaks, “Pleasant morning for a walk - isn’t it?”

“Oh, I see. You were just passing by, coincidentally.”

“You don’t look well rested. Long night?”

“I feel certain you must have a point”, John snaps.

“Yes. I noticed you did not stay at Montague Street.”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think that is any of your business.”

“Then, yes.”

“What?”

“Yes, you are wrong. I assure you, our discussion yesterday makes this every bit my business.”

“It really doesn’t. Besides - I am not the only person who made alternative arrangements from Montague Street last night.”

“You seem quite sure.”

John glances up at Mycroft, hoping for a moment that he is about to be contradicted, but sees only grudging confirmation there.

John sighs, then gives Mycroft his report - like a good soldier, “I performed with Major Miller last night and went out with him after the show. Your brother was there for part of it but left with an American serviceman who was...who seemed… _ they seemed _ rather..taken up with each other. Moran accosted me in my dressing room after the show and again in the Hotel lounge. As per orders, I...staged a tactical retreat with the singer Helen O’Connell and spent the night with her.”

“Moran has made...overtures?”

John laughs without humour, “I’d say he’s past the overture and gone for the whole opera, but I told him no”.

“And his response?”

“I don’t see a promotion to Major in the cards for me anytime soon - if that is what you mean.”

“He was displeased.”

“He was.”

Mycroft watches London drifting past, contemplating his next move, “You are correct, my brother did not return to Montague Street last night. Do you intend to return his key? If so, I would be more than happy to spare you the...inconvenience of finding an alternative method of delivery”.

John clasps the key in his pocket, the teeth digging into his palm. He cannot bring himself to hand it over - it is too close to confirming that all is lost between him and Sherlock, “I imagine he will be at the club and will ask for its return”.

“As you wish”, Mycroft pauses, considering carefully how to phrase what he needs to say, “Capt. Watson, I wish you the best and thank you for your service to King and Country. I am...concerned with your report regarding Colonel Moran. Exercise extreme caution, and I will endeavour to extricate you from his command”.

“No! I cannot leave my men - not so close to...well, you know. Moran wanted something he cannot have and was acting every inch the spoilt child about it. I’m sure it will blow over, we have greater concerns than our petty desires”, John finishes, with a hint of resignation that Mycroft knows has nothing to do with the Colonel.

Mycroft eyes John speculatively, “Well, I hope you have the measure of the man, for your sake”.

“Charming that you care.”

“Let’s keep that our little secret. We are at the Club, this is where I take my leave. Best of luck, Capt. Watson”.

John straightens, offers Mycroft a sharp salute, and exits into the service entrance of the club.

* * *

Tuesday rolls into Wednesday, then Thursday night, and John has not seen Sherlock or the American GI he absconded with at the club since Monday night. John waited until closing on Tuesday, hoping that Sherlock would appear in his dressing room so they could speak, but to no avail. Wednesday, John plucked up his courage to go to Sherlock’s flat on Montague Street, but there was no sign that Sherlock had been in since they left together on Monday. John waited as long as he could, then hurried Rainbow Corner so he had time to dress for the evening performance.

Meanwhile, he was also on unsteady ground with Helen. She professed not to mind that he wasn’t there when she woke Tuesday - but agreed with John that he needed to clarify his present situation before embarking on anything new. Despite their resolve, the two continued to flirt heavily through their rehearsals, but John took a room at a different hotel close to the club, and there was no repeat of their drunken indiscretion.

Sherlock has spent most of the week closeted with Mycroft’s agents and personnel files. He has narrowed the field of possible leaks to three: Midshipman Masters- secretary to Sir Bertram Ramsay - who, as Naval Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Naval Expeditionary Force - was in possession of great detail of the invasion and its order of battle, civilian secretary Janine Wilders, on the staff of the First Sealord - recent marital problems, husband is a drinker, and WREN Mary Morstan, also a secretary on Admiral Cunningham’s staff, though not directly associated with the First Sealord himself, but a good friend of Janine. 

All fit the profile: younger, significant issues or dramatic changes in their lives, part of the Admiralty. Sherlock already deduced that Moriarty would be targeting the Allied Expeditionary Forces Naval support codenamed Operation Neptune - as any invasion requires naval support and comprehensive knowledge of all details. Of the lot, Midshipman Masters seems the most above board, he started his career at Sandringham, where he met Moran, before switching to Royal Navy. Nothing particularly untoward about the connexion, which has been sporadically maintained by both men.  Janine Wilders worked directly for Admiral Pound, then Admiral Cunningham - of all possible targets she is most in disarray: her marriage in shambles, her husband invalided home and now drinking heavily. Still, she has a record of years of loyal service under two First Sea Lords and shows no outward signs of accepting bribes: no large bank deposits, not even a pair of new shoes...her son attends a rather prestigious private school, but he is there on his own merit on scholarship. Finally, WREN Morstan - Sherlock missed her on the first pass-through, as she was secretary to no one of particular importance. But she was fast friends with Janine, though their association appeared to be a new one. Wren Morstan often covered Janine’s phones and would have had ample opportunity to view Admiral Cunningham’s diary. Mycroft’s minions were doing a deeper dive on Morstan’s history, which is admittedly patchy for someone who has at least a low-level security clearance since she works on the Sea Lord’s staff. She is unmarried, no known family or children - her residence, ration books, and even enlistment don’t go back any further than five years at most. Sherlock examines her picture - blond hair, a shade lighter than John’s, plain-faced but with a sharp expression that she smiled inanely to hide.

Sherlock rubs his face…. _ John…. _ the Work has occupied his time over the past few days, but each breath, each blink, each second of less-than-utter focus pulls his mind back to John Watson. Sherlock knows it is for the best, but just beneath the surface, his mind and body both rebel at so much lost time when he could have had John in his arms, in his bed. 

Sherlock is lost in his musings; he does not notice Mycroft entering the room, “You look all at sea, brother mine. How goes the research?”

“I believe I have narrowed it down to Wren Morstan - assuming we trust Admiral Cunningham is not our leak, it must be someone on his staff. Incidentally, I assume you have already….addressed the Cicero affair? Our Turkish bases are still required for the invasion, and the valet has stolen intelligence already - I wouldn’t be surprised if the Germans were comparing his notes to Moriarty’s.”

“Handled, brother. You are certain there is no connection through Moran?”

“You have been oddly focused on the Colonel’s involvement, Mycroft. Why?”

Mycroft feigns disinterest, “I’ve told you - we know of his association with Moriarty, it stands to reason that he might be the conduit for secrets.”

“He didn’t strike me as one for seducing female secretaries. There is something else - what are you keeping from me, Mycroft? You know I can always tell - your eyebrows shift and you look to your left, not your right.”

“Your soldier, Capt. Watson, Moran made - well - “more than overtures” - to the Captain after his first concert at Rainbow Corner, then again later that night. Capt. Watson rejected Moran and was, in turn, threatened by the Colonel.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”, Sherlock is grabbing his jacket and looking for his hat.

“Why should you care - you said yourself that the...dalliance was a distraction? I offered to remove him from Moran’s command, but he declined, knowing that his men would see action soon.”

“He’s only come to Moran’s attention because of me. I was...wrong. I need to see him, tonight.”

“Well - you know where he will be - it’s his penultimate concert with Major Miller’s band”, Mycroft weighs his next words, “I believe, in your absence, that his planned seduction of Miss O’Connell has progressed admirably. Are you sure he wants to see you before he returns to base and moves up to Portsmouth?”

Sherlock pales, realising the full extent of time lost with John. He cannot let him go with this misunderstanding still between them, “He will see me...there are things I have to say to him. And if he,...well, he’s a good man - even if he would rather not see me, he won’t deny me the chance to say… Goodbye.”


	16. Now It Can Be Told

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John meet again and finally talk.  
>  _Now it can be told_  
>  Told in all its glory  
> Now that we have met  
> The world may know the sentimental story

John and the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Band have just finished rehearsing their new pieces for Friday and Saturday’s shows. Saturday will be broadcast again, which makes John particularly nervous, but he is prepared. As the band disperses to smoke, or eat - Helen floats back into the rehearsal space with a record in her hands.

“Johnny! Look what I’ve got here - fresh off the press! I wish we had time to learn it for tomorrow - it’s so romantic”.

“Does the record have a vocal?”

“Not this one…”

“So - sing it to me, Hel?”

“You got it, Doctor Dreamboat”, Helen grins up at John, pressing the record between them. John places it on the turntable and Helen sings.

> _ All the world's great lovers have been glorified _
> 
> _ History placed them in a romantic set _
> 
> _ In between book covers they are side by side _
> 
> _ But the real thing hasn't been written yet _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Now it can be told _
> 
> _ Told in all its glory _
> 
> _ Now that we have met _
> 
> _ The world may know the sentimental story _
> 
>  
> 
> _ The greatest story they ever knew _
> 
> _ Is waiting to  _
> 
> _ Unfold _

John is watching Helen, Helen is singing to John - so neither see Sherlock enter the room. He pauses just inside the door to watch John. John is smiling, but there is something in his eyes that seem miles away when Sherlock hears him sigh over the final verse, 

> _ The great love story _ __  
>  _ Has never been told before _ _  
>  _ _ But now _ _  
>  _ __ Now it can be told

He walks into the room, towards John. At least 5 expressions cross John’s face in rapid succession: surprise, longing, anger, embarrassment and something Sherlock would desperately like to believe is love, but he cannot fathom how John Watson could feel that way about Sherlock when Sherlock cruelly abandoned John. Unfortunately for both, John’s face settles into an angry grimace.

“Why are you here?”, John growls.

“I wanted...I needed to see you. Miss O’Connell, may I speak to John privately, please?”

“No - anything you can say to me, you can say in front of her. After all - Helen was gracious enough to extend her hospitality when you scarpered. Did your GI’s leave end? Poor dear, you must be devastated.”

“John, if I wanted to listen to meaningless nonsense, I’d have stayed with Mycroft at HQ - where I’ve been since Monday.”

“Odd. That never came up when he practically abducted me on Tuesday”

“Did he say he hadn’t seen me?”   


“He said you didn’t stay at Montague Street”, Sherlock raises his eyebrows and John scowls, but continues, “No, he didn’t say directly - but he implied...heavily. He certainly didn’t contradict me when I asked if you were with that American”.

“I’m afraid there has been a colossal misunderstanding, John. I stayed with Mycroft Monday, and have been there since then.”

John is breathing heavily, “Helen, could you give us a mo’, luv?”

“Whatever you need, Johnny - if you need me just whistle.”

As soon as Helen leaves the room, Sherlock rounds on John - grasping his biceps and pulling John’s body flush with his own, “John - the American GI was Moriarty, disguised. He...he threatened you - told me he had a sniper trained on you - if I didn’t let him go….”

“And that is either true, or another performance worthy of the West End….and, with you?  I can’t even begin to differentiate...because I believed you,....in your arms, in your...bed...I believed you, but then I saw you with that American….”

Sherlock won't release John - he keeps explaining, as though John does not understand, “Moriarty gave me a clue to the leak, John! I’ve been immersed in the Work since then. Finally - finally we may have the key to defeat him!”, Sherlock slides his arms around John’s waist, pulling him closer, “But I’ve missed you every hour of every day….please, let me kiss you?”

“Sherlock!  No, wait. Why couldn’t you tell me this? I wouldn’t have kept you - I know how important the Work is, to all of us. You didn’t even slip backstage to leave a note before you hared off to Mycroft’s!”

“I...was going to tell you, I went backstage after the show to tell you….but then I saw you leaving your dressing room with Helen that night. You looked so natural with her,...I thought you weren’t shamming.”

“You  _ suggested…” _

_ “ _ I know what I suggested! I didn’t think about how it would feel for you to do it. I was jealous, insanely jealous. But it was more than that - because of me, Moriarty targeted you. I had to convince him that you were just a...distraction to me.”

“Then why come back now?”

“I thought by leaving you I would take you out of the line of fire, but today...Mycroft - today he told me about your interaction with Moran. I’ve done this, I put you in danger when all I wanted was to keep you safe. I tried and failed, spectacularly. Now, I can’t let you go without...I cannot let you go, John. Please?”

Sherlock moves to kiss John, but John pulls away, “Sherlock, wait”, John steps away, looking down and speaks as though he were thinking aloud, “God, what a disaster! I’ve been so angry,...and felt so...foolish. Who takes on so over a man he just met, not even a week ago?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise”, John bites his lower lip, his brow furrowed in thought. He nods to himself as he decides how to proceed and turns back to Sherlock, “I need to be honest with you, too. Helen - she rescued me from Moran - that’s why we were hugging as we walked from the dressing room...but later that night, I fought with Moran. Helen overheard. She knows about me, about us….”

“That is fine, John…”

John covers his eyes and holds up his arm as though to ward Sherlock off, “Let me finish. She offered to let me stay with her - just as friends. We got to drinking,...and I was so...so hurt”, John whispers, “...picturing you in a clutch with that American...even if that was Moriarty, you didn’t see yourself with him, your expression when he wasn’t looking at you - like you had found the most fascinating person on the planet…”

“John…”

“Still - it is no excuse”, John takes a deep breath, “I slept with Helen that night. Just the once, but there you are.”

Sherlock’s hand covers his heart - hearing his fear confirmed strikes him like a physical blow. At the same time, he finds he cannot deny there was a spark of...something between him and Moriarty - intellectual sparring with an evenly matched partner.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m just...I am so very sorry.”

“No. No apologies - if you were weak, so was I, in a different way.”

“Yes. Well, I....that's the whole of it. Nothing left to say. I only wish...I wish this ended differently”, John squares his shoulders, but he is also close to tears.

“No, No, No, NO, John. You misunderstand. I DO NOT CARE - whatever hideous mistakes we made - and it is clear, we were both fools. I just want you, John. Please believe me - I haven’t yet solved the case - but it didn’t matter, not as much as seeing you, telling you...what..what I had to tell you”, Sherlock finishes with a stammer.

“Are you trying to say that I can have my alternative ending?”, John smiles and reaches out.

“I am telling you,...”, Sherlock wraps his arms around John, “I am telling you…Ah!”, there is a desperation to Sherlock’s kiss, and it is passionately returned, “John! I know we are living on borrowed time, even now - but when this war is over, when you are home - and you will come home, John Watson - come home to me?”

“Oh God, yes!”, John crashes their lips together in fevered kisses, tinged with salt. They consume each other - shaking with the knowledge of time lost. The room dims into twilight as their kiss resolves. They stand pressed against the other - unwilling or unable to break their connection - until Helen re-enters the room. She crosses to the phonograph before she realises that the men are still there.

“Ooo! Captain, you gave me a fright. I just came to pick up my record. I didn’t hear voices, I thought you might have gone.”   


“Helen, I am so sorry…”, John begins.   


“Johnny - don’t you dare be. After all, we torch singers are the new troubadours,” Helen grins, “Now then, Lieutenant, why don’t you ask my handsome Captain for a dance?”, Helen asks as she queues up the record again. 

Sherlock holds out his hand and when John accepts, he pulls John close. They sway gently as Helen tells them, “ _ Now It Can Be Told… _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song "Now It Can Be Told" is completely TRMOJaS. ;) From the Irving Berlin songbook - here is my favorite recording:   
> (via https://open.spotify.com/track/1kNyHh7EbAKwf2lSvh6ES3)


	17. Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a moment, John breaks their silence, “So - this is the last time for a long while - we ought to make it...good. Send your soldier away with something to keep him warm?”
> 
> “ _My_ soldier?”
> 
> “Yours, Sherlock.”
> 
> “Well, then...Yes, Captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments and kudos!

By the last line of the song, Sherlock and John are closer. Helen shuts the phonograph, and John looks over sheepishly.

“Johnny, our call is in 15 minutes.”

“Will you stay for the show?”

“I need to finish what I started with Mycroft...but I will come tomorrow night. And...will you stay at Montague Street tonight?  Even if I cannot come home - I want to know that you are there.”

“OK - I will”, John sighs and kisses Sherlock gently. Sherlock straightens his cap, squares his shoulders and leaves.

* * *

Mycroft  rubs away the frown from between his brows. There is no one on Admiral Cunningham’s staff that could be called into question. Sherlock must be wrong - admittedly, a rare occurrence  -  but not an impossible one. Mycroft considers whether it would be better to shelve the Overlord plans or deal with the fallout of withholding intelligence. It’s a horrible decision to make - and pointless either way - sort of like choosing the calibre of the bullet for your own firing squad. As Mycroft ponders, Sherlock hurtles through the door.

“What progress has been made?”

“Sherlock - there is no leak. Not a single member of Andrew’s staff has anything so much as an overdue library book to be held over their head. I didn’t disagree with your deductions; so I bear the responsibility for this myself.”

“No,..,”Sherlock shifts through piles of papers, “...this cannot be.”

“Mr Holmes, Sir! Message from Admiral Cunningham’s office, his secretary has been badly beaten, by her husband. She’s in hospital.”

Sherlock rounds on the agent, “Who is covering for Janine?”

“Wren Morstan, Sir.”

Mycroft turns to Sherlock, “NOT two.”  
“Just one, Mary Morstan.”

“We can have her arrested before she has time to brew his tea.”

“No, Mycroft. That would give the game away.”

“Sherlock - this is NOT a game. This is...the end of a world war, countless lives…”  
“I have a better idea. You think Andrew will be able to survive without his secretary? Get him working out of SHAEF instead of the Admiralty. And get all of the real plans out of the Admiralty - leave nothing to chance. We already have fake plans - codenamed Operation Fortitude - circulating about Gen. Montgomery - the second army - they are good, of course.  But he doesn’t really sell it, does he?”

“Montgomery’s tea-time manners hardly strike fear into the heart of the Wehrmacht.”

“So - let’s make their worst nightmare appear to come true.”

Mycroft’s eyes illuminate with understanding, “The American...Patton.”

“Let’s embroider upon Operation Fortitude South - create a new American army group, and - to complete the deception - throw in ‘lead by General Patton’ - give Rommel nightmares - then he will believe the target is Pas de Calais. Falsify the plans - in the Admiralty’s copies - make sure they look like they are for Operation Overlord and for God’s sake, make sure Wren Morstan gets them. Then - we can arrange something that isn’t suspect. Illness - food poisoning - anything to take her out of the Admiralty.”

“And you can just arrange food poisoning?”

Sherlock smiles, “As long as you are up to inventing an Army, Brother mine. In the realm of simple chemistry, never forget that I’m the resident genius. It will certainly look like food poisoning. No one will be the wiser - least of all Wren Morstan.”

“I’ll put the new plan through General Strangeways - no sense in giving the game away, in case there is another double agent on the inside. That will work - the perfect diversion.”

* * *

Sherlock returns to the theatre for John’s last performance. Together, they leave Rainbow Corner and return to Montague Street.

“Tomorrow your orders will come through - you are moving up to Portsmouth. I don’t want you to be anywhere near Moran. Are you sure I can’t have you transferred? Mycroft..”

“Sherlock, this is why I fight. I won’t leave my men, I won’t abandon my post because it’s become dangerous - I signed up for dangerous. Moran has a war to win - he can’t afford to nurse personal grudges.”

Sherlock knows that tone will brook no argument, and so he yields. He stands in front of John - the air is heavy with the weight of all that remains unsaid between them - and memorises every line of John Watson’s face.

After a moment, John breaks their silence, “So - this is the last time for a long while - we ought to make it...good. Send your soldier away with something to keep him warm?”

“ _My_ soldier?”

“Yours, Sherlock.”

“Well, then...Yes, Captain.”

Sherlock strips away John’s uniform, then his own. Their bodies slot together as though they were long-time lovers, their lips entwined, hands blindly grasping as they slowly rocked into each other - feeling pleasure build and crest again and again until dawn steals across their twisted sheets. In the early dawn hours, many promises are whispered - but there is nothing sure about life in war time. And both men know it.

In the morning, Sherlock follows John through the flat as he bathes, shaves, drinks his tea...but finally, his departure cannot be delayed any longer.

“So this is it. I won’t say goodbye - but only, ‘see you later’...can I write to you?”

“I don’t think it would be safe, John.”

“Of course. You are right. It’s just that….I will miss you.”

“And I, you. More than you know. More than I thought possible just a week ago,” Sherlock holds John’s hat as the cab waits below, “You _will_ come back. And when you do….”

“And when I do - no matter where you are - I _will_ find you”.

Sherlock reverently places the hat on John’s head; John straightens it - and with a quick salute, shoulders his bag and returns to his battalion, his men, and his orders to move up with the 2nd Army to Portsmouth.

* * *

 

_False plans are planted within the Admiralty, promising invasion in Pas de Calais - Codenamed Operation Fortitude South. Engineers begin work mocking up an impressive order of battle in the staging area to Calais. When a copy of the plans cross Admiral Cunningham’s desk - falsely bound and titled Operation Overlord - Wren Morstan is quick to transmit them to Moriarty, who sells them to the highest bidder - Field Marshal Rommel. Rommel begins to fortify the coastline around Calais, diverting his attention from the Normandy beaches - the true site of the attack. Sherlock’s plan is successful - he even arranges Morstan’s illness believably. When she returns to work, Janine is also back. Later, the officer Morstan works for is transferred to active duty, and Morstan is sent to Scotland - as part of the support staff for Operation Fortitude North - the second arm of the fake D-Day battle plans - and she is neutralised as a threat._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have entered the History Channel portion of the programme - just a little - Operation Fortitude was a real thing, and did get 'spiced up' in the way the story suggests (though, obviously, not by a Holmes, but rather by Gen. Strangeways).


	18. Good-bye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moran, John, and Sherlock all prepare for the Normandy Invasion, while Jim Moriarty plays a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse back home in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, we've gone so long without an update - but I haven't abandoned fic! Just...plot is so much harder than porn. :)  
> As always - the kudos and comments give me life - and get me back here, writing - just that much faster, so thank you!!!  
> I have no beta - so feel free to tell me if there is anything egregiously wrong and in need of editing. Cheers!

**April 1944**

Colonel Sebastian Moran paces the small room with a camp bed that he has been allocated. It is only weeks before the invasion, and Moran is in danger of drowning on dry land - in paperwork. The Tiger Training Exercise was an unmitigated disaster; a dress rehearsal that was interrupted by an actual attack from German E-Boats, added to a friendly-fire incident that killed hundreds more. By April, it became glaringly clear that Moriarty was duped - he did not have the true Overlord plans - which means that the British High Command is aware of his espionage operation. Yet, there is no way to get word to Jim as long as he remains in London - relentlessly hunting Lt. Sherlock Holmes.

Before moving up to Portsmouth staging area, he tried one last time to contact Jim Moriarty. Moran blushes as he recalls that conversation, even though it happened several months ago.

> “....and you do not find it suspicious at all that Wren Morstan was allowed to gain access?”
> 
> “What  _ I find  _ suspicious, Sebastian, is how dead set against the Calais invasion you seem to be. Why wouldn’t the British attack there - capture the fuel pipelines? Rommel was convinced.”
> 
> “Rommel is panicking - he’s not Hitler’s desert fox any longer.”
> 
> “You think he is out of favor?”
> 
> “I think it is difficult to always please a capricious master - as Hitler, I mean.”
> 
> “Be careful, Sebastian.  Anyone might think from your tone that you are speaking from experience.”

Moran grimaces - Jim is capricious in everything.  Moran got too comfortable - he thought Jim had a wandering eye yet secure affections, but Sebastian was wrong. Jim is prone to obsessions - Moran was the target of that heady obsession for years. Now, Moran has been supplanted by the younger Holmes brother - and he takes grim pleasure in knowing that Jim’s affection isn’t returned.

> “Why do you remain in England? Surely the risk…”
> 
> Jim cuts him off, “My risk to take, Sebastian.”
> 
> Moran is silent for a beat, then asks angrily,  “Your risk...to what end?  Is your...your fascination with Lt. Holmes worth an indeterminate stay at His Majesty’s Pleasure?”   
>  Jim considers ignoring his former lover, but he knows Sebastian Moran’s tenacity, “You don’t think he’s a worthy object? His brother  _ is  _ the British Government. Having Sherlock Holmes in my clutches is better than having Churchill come ‘round to tea. I did warn you about thinking, Sebastian - it’s hardly your chosen art form.”
> 
> Moran ignores the insult, “Holmes is quite taken with my Capt. Watson.”
> 
> “Yes - I know. Watson is in Sherlock Holmes’ bed at this very moment. You  _ do  _ surprise me, Sebastian. I didn’t expect you to be such a gentleman about  _ that  _ rejection.”

The memory stings. Moran’s whiskey sloshes in the glass.  _ And yet...Jim has been wrong at every turning in the affair of Watson and Holmes. If Watson dies, Sherlock Holmes might never recover - but even if he recovers - would he ever forget?  _

Moran takes another slow sip, feeling the liquid burning down his throat.  _ And Watson? Once you have been in the cross-hairs - the sole target of a brilliant mind, sharper than any scalpel - well, John Watson may die -  but he will never, ever leave Sherlock Holmes while there is breath left in his body.  _

Moran should know - he loyally served King and country for years until he met Jim. Even as he cruelly rejects Moran, Sebastian’s erstwhile lover takes precedence. Moran cannot free himself from his compulsion,...his addiction to James Moriarty.

* * *

**May 1944**

The weeks pass slowly in Portsmouth. Sholto drills his men every day - laden down with packs slogging through waist-deep seawater, firing at targets that they can barely discern. At night - the exhausted company falls into their bunks and wait for it to start again in the morning.

> _ Somewhere in England _
> 
> Sherlock - 
> 
> You told me not to write - so I will never send these. But I'm keeping….well, I suppose it's a journal of sorts. I only barely know you and yet, I find myself needing to tell you things, to share my day. You would probably find it all hopelessly boring. 
> 
> I am grateful that I was not allowed to know more of the Operation’s strategy. As little as we have been told, our prospects seem dim with only a slim chance at success. The High Command has never issued plans that are detailed or clear - but the drills we perform have lead me to believe that without surprise on our side, the Operation will be a slaughter. 
> 
> You are constantly in my thoughts. My mind runs over our handful of days gingerly -  as though the sharpness of those memories could fade,...as though I could wear those memories out by worrying at them with my mind. Silly.  
> 
> I miss you is inadequate, but I do. 
> 
> I do not expect you to wait for me - how could I, when I cannot know if I will even return from France? Nor do I know what kind of life we could expect to lead together in peacetime, but - God, yes, I want it. Want you….

Capt. Watson stretches out on his bunk. 

“Still writing, Sir?” Corporal Bill Murray asks. 

“Settles my mind - somewhat” John smiles. 

“Getting some orders would do me a sight better.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Corporal. Some day you are sure to get it.”

Murray smiles, “Me m’am used to say the same - still, nothing like the army for hurry up and wait”.

“I've heard it's good preparation for married life, Murray”

“Doc - is that a likely state to befall either of us?”, Murray asks, gazing wistfully at John. He immediately becomes self-conscious and unsure, “ah….meaning no disrespect, Cap’t”

“Stand easy, soldier”, John glances around, “...and no - not terribly likely for me, right you are”.

Murray moves closer to John, who continues, “That's not to say that I don't have someone on the home front waiting”.

“Yessir…,” Bill is quiet for a moment, then he adds in a small voice, “It’s that naval lieutenant, isn’t it?”

“Bill….”

“You don’t need to tell me, Doc. I wondered, is all”, Murray’s expression is melancholic, but he takes John’s gentle refusal in stride. 

 

Major Sholto enters the barracks. John and his men snap to attention.

“As you were, men. Capt. Watson - a word.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Major Sholto turns on his heel, leaving Watson to trail him out into the rain. 

“Major, is it time - do we have orders?” John is prickling for action, he needs something to do.

“Watson -what I am about to share with you is classified. The High Command intends to recapture France. In addition to the main attack, which  - you are intelligent enough to realise - will be prodigiously large, there will be a commando mission - top secret - they need medical support.”

“But, James - my men…”

But Sholto continues, implacably, “Support who can fire a gun as well as stitch up a wound….John”, Sholto moves in close, grasping John’s bicep, “It will be incredibly dangerous, but there is no one else I would entrust with the battle readiness and combat support of 47 Commando.”

“How did you hear they needed medics?”

“Their CO - we were at Sandringham together. He shouldn't have told me - but he knew,...he heard me speak of you. You are what they need, John. It will be dangerous - but I know you would never have me spare you danger. Danger is what we signed up for - danger is part of our duty.” 

 

_ I said ‘danger’ and here you are.  _

 

“Of course, sir. I'd be honored to serve.”

“Pick another medic - one you've trained, John. You will not be alone out there.” 

“Murray”, Watson answers, without hesitation.

Major Sholto’s eyebrows arch, questioningly.

“I'll have Corporal Bill Murray - he's trained as a nurse in civilian life, he's a good shot - steady hand, no….no family to leave behind.”

“As you wish, Watson. You and Murray will transfer to the commando training barracks tomorrow at 0700. Good luck”, Sholto grasps John’s shoulders once more and their eyes meet - the weight of all that remains unsaid lies heavily between them - but Sholto turns away, “I'll see you on the other side, John.”

* * *

**Late May 1944**

Sherlock takes a final drag from his cigarette as he approaches Rainbow Corner. Every week, Sherlock visits the American’s entertainment complex on Friday evening - smoking cigarettes, drinking Coca-cola - which he secretly enjoys, sometimes playing pool, and always avoiding the more persistent dance hostesses. British Intelligence maintains that Moriarty is still in the country - so Sherlock’s weekly reconnaissance visit is a half-hearted attempt to flush him out. His spy, Morstan, was reassigned to Operation Fortitude North - the false battle plans - and then was quietly eliminated in the ‘sinking’ of one of the phony ships in the North Sea. It was a poetically appropriate ending for an endlessly false woman, Sherlock thinks. 

In the interceding weeks and months, Sherlock has been kept busy by Mycroft as a strategist for the Special Operations Executive division. Working closely with Mycroft, Sherlock considers that - within the month - his assignment might result in a casualty to one particular non-combatant, currently sequestered in the depths of London’s Diogenes Club. He recalls their earlier conversation.

> “Sherlock, it’s an ideal assignment. Instead of harassing me to the brink of extinction - either mine or your own - you are being given free reign to annoy the Nazis - to death, if it can be arranged.”
> 
> “Mycroft - I can only spin up implausible theories here. To do what you  _ need  _ me to do, send me to France. I speak French - fluently, I’d never be so gauche as to wear British shoes, and would even smoke Gauloises.”
> 
> “Your patriotic sacrifice has been noted. No, Sherlock”, Mycroft shakes out the evening’s Post and retreats behind the newspaper.
> 
> “But why not?”
> 
> “Any number of reasons - you already have BIGOT-level security clearance, and knowledge of the Overlord plans - so if you were captured, it would be both a disaster and an embarrassment for Britain,” Mycroft pauses, considering, “Also - I would have to explain your death to Mummy and...your loss would break my heart”, Mycroft trails off.
> 
> Sherlock barks in exasperation, “What on earth am I to make of such a statement?”
> 
> “Whatever you will. NO, Sherlock, it is pointless to keep asking, I cannot...I WILL not change my response.”
> 
> “But…”
> 
> “Are you really so transparent?  If I told you that Captain John Watson was to be transferred to the Pacific theatre, would you remain so desperately eager for holiday in France?”, Mycroft slams down his newspaper.

Sherlock stalks out of the Diogenes Club, hailing a cab back to Montague Street for a quick change of costume.

Lt. Holmes’ eyes adjust to the dark interior of the Club from the atypically bright London sunshine. He enters the billiard parlour, removes his hat and chalks his cue. A soldier gives a quick, barking laugh, and Sherlock’s pulse quickens - but this soldier has ginger hair, not blonde. He sighs; nothing, it seems, can distract him from John Watson. Sherlock is not even sure if intelligence gathering or morbid sentiment has driven him to the American Red Cross Club. 

He racks, breaks and is joined by an American officer.

“Are you looking for a bit of friendly competition?”

Sherlock looks up from the billiard table to see an extremely handsome, blonde, tanned American GI standing just a shade too close for a friendly stranger, “Do you Yanks play by the same rules?”

“That remains to be seen, sir. You rack, I’ll break?”

The soldier bends from the waist before he breaks, glancing back to be sure that Sherlock is watching him swivel his hips. His uniform is more tailored than most of the other American GI’s, particularly in the seat. Even Sherlock must admit - it isn’t a bad view.

“Good break.”

“Table is up here, sir. I’ll take stripes”

They play without exchanging much more than secretive smiles. As Sherlock attempts to line up a particularly difficult shot, the American leans so his flies - which outline his semi-erect cock - hang over the targeted pocket, “Will this help you to line it up and sink it?”

Sherlock smiles a little, “Was that an attempt at flirtation, Corporal?”

“Depends…is it working, Lt. Holmes?”

Sherlock’s smile falters, but he turns before the American can see. He moves to the table and rapidly sinks the rest of the solid balls, ending by calling the 8-ball in the side pocket, “I win. What’s the wager?.”

“I’m open to suggestions, Lieutenant Holmes.”

Sherlock retrieves his hat, and presses close to the American soldier, “Follow me then to pay your forfeit, Corporal…?”

“Barrows,...Francis Barrows. I’ll follow right behind you, sir.”

Sherlock leads Corporal Barrows through a maze of corridors, out into the back alley where he escaped with John that first night. Sherlock stops short, turning on the American to grab his wrists and press him against the brick wall of the alleyway.

“Fuck - yes...Holmes”.

Sherlock watches Barrows' eyes dilate; he laces his fingers into Barrows’ left hand and jerks it in front of him.

“Married - but not for long. Your wedding ring left a tan line on your finger, but there isn’t too permanent an indent from the band. You do have homosexual tendencies -  _ this”,  _ Sherlock thrusts his knee between Barrows’ legs, “this is not just for show”, Sherlock drops Barrows' hands and draws his pistol, “Who sent you?”

“How did you...?”

“You know my name - it’s not on my uniform, and as an American, you might not even be able to reliably determine my rank - as our epaulets differ from your own, but you were flawlessly correct, Lt. Holmes - all in one go. Now - let’s hope you are better at delivering messages than you were at seduction - though I wouldn’t mind if you made your message as obvious as your ham-fisted lothario routine, I’m in a terrible rush. Who sent you to seek me out?”

Barrows looks sick with fear - he was clearly only sent to way-lay Holmes; he is not an operative. Sherlock steps back, raising his firearm, when he hears a lilting sing-song voice.

“Jim Moriarty...Hiii-iii’, Jim emerges from behind a skip with one hand raised and the other holding a strange gun.

Sherlock steps back aiming at Jim, while Moriarty shoots Corporal Barrows with a tranquilizer.

“He’ll be fine come morning. Didn’t you like my little present? I was sure I got your colour, though I’m not certain I sent the proper size.”

“Yes - very thoughtful. But all I have for you is this bullet….and Mycroft’s best regards, of course”, Sherlock cocks his pistol, as he does, he hears the sound of several other weapons being readied.

“Whoops!”, Jim’s smile is deranged, “Best laid plans and all that...but you should have realized by now that I’m never entirely without backup. Nighty-night, Mr. Holmes”.

A hidden sniper shoots Sherlock with a tranq and he collapses nearly on top of Barrows.

“They make a handsome pair, don’t they. I was going to leave the blonde one, but maybe we should take them both and make some photos before we are done? After all - there is always a solid market for grain-fed blondes...”.

A nondescript black car rolls down the alleyway, the driver loads Holmes into the boot, then realises that there won’t be enough room for the American.

“Ah - lucky boy...looks like all you will get is a massive headache for your pains. Leave him, let’s go”, Jim Moriarty and his men climb into the automobile and wind down the empty side streets on their way out of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Training Excercise Tiger was a bit of a disaster for the Allies - hundreds were likely killed between the German E-Boat attack and friendly fire accidents, but the incident was hushed up so as not to give away Operation Overlord plans.  
> Rommel did believe the fake Operation Fortitude plans - unfortunately - he also realized that the Normandy Beaches, where the D-Day Invasion did occur looked very much like the beaches in Salerno, where the Allies began their push into Italy - and so Normandy's invasion beaches were much better fortified than the Allies realised.  
> The SOE (aka "Baker Street Irregulars") were actively involved in undercover operations in France, working with the French Underground - prior to the D-Day Invasion.


	19. White Cliffs of Dover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to consciousness in a dark room with floors of compacted earth and stone. The window shows only the first glimmer of daylight, and the breeze carries the rank smells of low tide, but not the freshness of open ocean.  
> “You would think that the people of Gravesend would turn to God, what with the Luftwaffe bombing the local RAF airstrip with alarming regularity - but here we are - alone in the chapel”  
> ~~~~~~~~  
> The moorings creak as the soldiers board their landing craft. The barrage has started - it is almost impossible to talk now, over the whistle of torpedoes and rat-tat-tat of ceaseless machine gun fire. John and Bill are going out with A Troop.  
> “It’s a sight better defended than the HC boys guessed, innit?”, Bill grouses.  
> “Ah, come now, Billy- they never guess”, Watson tightens his pack and jumps down into the LCA which will bring them into the JIG Green sector of Gold Beach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the lag between instalments of the story. Life intervenes, and then - I re-did the outline of the story and want to re-write the whole thing. :)

## 5 June 1944 - Crossing the Channel - SS Victoria

“We really must be in for it, when is the last time we had this much food?”, Bill asks around a full mouth.

“I think I saw ice cream? It’s the Americans - they are hard on feed, didn’t you notice?”, John tucks into his plate - the last time he had eaten so well, a certain Naval Lieutenant was his only messmate. If it is possible to chew pensively, John Watson does.

“Yessir, they’re strapping lads - must barely keep them together”, Bill blushes as he stares at his supper, “Same with our Marines”.

John wonders if his Corporal is still pining. Bill never questioned his new assignment, and John never told him. It comforted John - even though the worst may come - that Bill knew him and he knew Bill, even those things they were often forced to hide. Bill catches John’s gaze; John ruffles his hair affectionately as they stand and move off towards the compartment where they will try to sleep.

“Get some rest, Bill. It’s trite enough to say it, but tomorrow is a big day.”

Bill stretches down from the upper bunk to touch John’s shoulder, “Sing us a song, then?”. He turns to stare at the ceiling as John quietly sings “White Cliffs of Dover” as though it were a lullaby. 

 

## 6 June 1944 - 0500 hours - SS Victoria

The men crowd the foredeck of the SS Victoria and HMS Princess Josephine Charlotte. Their faces are blackened with Pond’s Cream; still, no one speaks. It is difficult to discern much in the pre-dawn fog as the ships of the Operation Neptune armada roll silently at anchor, miles out to sea.

Capt. Watson and Corporal Murray make a final review of their kit, tightening straps, loading pistols, preparing to board the LCAs to invade France. The commandos run through their preparations by rote, loosening their pack straps so they won’t be pulled under if their landing vehicle is sunk. It is so dark that the men have difficulty forming up into their companies by sight...and no one wants to break the silence that seals up around them.

 

## 6 June 1944 - 0900 hours - Gravesend, England

“Wakey, wakey, Mr Holmes. You’ve napped quite long enough.”

Sherlock comes to consciousness in a dark room with floors of compacted earth and stone. The window shows only the first glimmer of daylight, and the breeze carries the rank smells of low tide, but not the freshness of open ocean.

“You would think that the people of Gravesend would turn to God, what with the Luftwaffe bombing the local RAF airstrip with alarming regularity - but here we are - alone in the chapel”

Sherlock cannot help but groan as he attempts to turn his head. His mouth is dry, his hands are bound - and he is apparently in Gravesend.

_Port town on the Thames, endowed by Henry VIII to defend London….FOCUS._

Jim Moriarty signals to his driver, who picks up Sherlock as though he were a small boy and carries him towards a stairwell.

“They say that there were hundreds of tunnels that sailors would escape through to avoid conscription aboard a Royal Navy vessel. Romantic, isn’t it? Always better in theory than in practice, I’ve found. Rats, you see. Absolutely everywhere - enough for one to abandon each of those sinking ships in the Channel. Don’t worry - Jeff won’t put you down - they look hungry.”

Sherlock loses a bit more time - drifting in and out of consciousness as he is borne along down the passageway. A change in the incline and they arrive at a bolted door - the wood is so dirty and worn away that it is difficult to perceive the change in the wall. Moriarty dangles a key in front of Sherlock, then snatches it away - unlocking the door with a theatrical flourish.

They enter what appears to be a servant’s kitchen. A thick coating of dust and grime reveals the house to be long-abandoned. They are still close to the water - but the dirty windows do not admit much daylight; Sherlock tries to make out a bit more of his surroundings when he is thrown haphazardly into a straight-backed chair and a flour-sack covers his head.

“Irene, darling - we have a guest.”

 

## 6 June 1944 - 0730 hours - The Assault Flotilla

The moorings creak as the soldiers board their landing craft. The barrage has started - it is almost impossible to talk now, over the whistle of torpedoes and rat-tat-tat of ceaseless machine gun fire. John and Bill are going out with A Troop.

“It’s a sight better defended than the HC boys guessed, innit?”, Bill grouses.

“Ah, come now, Billy- they never guess”, Watson tightens his pack and jumps down into the LCA which will bring them into the JIG Green sector of Gold Beach.

“Dunno, sir. I think this’ll put me off beach holidays permanently”, Corporal Murray starts as the LCA lowers into the water with a lurch.

“I’ve heard they are nicer when Jerry isn’t using them for target practice.”

“It’ll take a sight more than a general lack of Germans to convince me to holiday seaside.” Corporal Murray says, with such serious earnestness that John has to smile a little. That smile trickles away like the cold sea water that washes over the bow of the landing craft. Within a mile of shore, the operation goes pear-shaped. One of the LCA is hit directly - or maybe hits a mine - John cannot tell - in the end, only four men can be rescued. When his LCA reaches the shore the gates lower, and the men disembark. As the coxswain goes over the side, one of the marines turns to Watson with the cheery, fatalistic smile of a true Commando -  saying “Perhaps we’re intruding - this seems like a private beach.”

* * *

 After patching up a sergeant who will be lucky if he uses his arm again, John comes up for air and sees Bill, dragging a gut-shot marine back into cover. 47 Commando was to muster at Le Hamel - a plan complicated by the continued German presence there - a presence announced by the continuous artillery barrage strafing the beachhead. It is nearly noon before the commandos muster at Les Roquettes, where they set out on a forced march to secure Port-en-Bessen. Before long, the marines are pinned down in the village - waiting for air cover before advancing on the Eastern and Western features. Capt. Watson and the other medics improvise a Regimental Aid Post in one of the more intact houses.

“Corporal, get me that dressing kit? Looks like we will be here for a while - at least until first light.”

“This is the field hospital?”, Corporal Murray looks around at the house, “Was it cleared?”

Watson pauses, tipping his head back wearily, “It was. And then the lieutenant and I went upstairs - and found a dozen Germans hiding in the eaves” he wipes his brow, smearing it with blood. Murray comes over with the dressing kit and a cloth; he gently wipes John’s face.

“I suppose we shouldn’t get too accustomed to these luxurious digs. Forgive me for saying so, sir. But you need to get some rest too.”

“Will do, Corporal - 2nd Devon should catch up soon enough - we can hand off some of the injured - then I’ll try to…incoming”, Watson and Murray look up - several stretcher-bearers trot into the RAP. Capt. Watson instantly begins triage, until the man on the third stretcher pulls him up short.

It’s Colonel Moran.

 

## 7 June 1944 - 1600 hours - Gravesend, England

Irene Adler could have been many things.

Her family, in a burst of liberality between the wars, allowed her train as a nurse in London. Her sensibilities led her to rouge her knees; her beauty and love of danger drove her into the path of Jim Moriarty. But instead of prostituting Irene, Jim realised that her intellect would serve him far better as a madam, a dominatrix. Irene possessed an uncanny ability to observe and discern anyone's darkest desire or fondest wish.

The war took Moriarty away from England, which allowed Irene much more latitude to operate independently. It also brought her into circles of military men and their secrets - which made for both a lucrative side business and a first line of defence for when she misbehaved - which was always.

Irene would always owe a debt to James Moriarty - for her start in business, her initial contacts, and her freedom when Jim was being dragged into investigations. When Jim returned to England, he had no compunction on calling in that debt - both for a base of operations and later - for Sherlock Holmes. Leaving Holmes in the ramshackle kitchen, Jim and Irene retreat to the lounge to discuss tactics. Jim is confident he will prevail - Irene always can tell what someone likes.

“Him? Of course, I know what he likes”, Irene’s heels click across the parquet, as she opens a drawer of the desk with a magician’s flourish. She brandishes a needle, “Heroin”.

“I was hoping you would be able to go a bit deeper, Irene.”

“No - you were hoping that he liked you” Irene eyes Jim speculatively. “I can tell you the truth, Jim. Maybe I’m the last one who can...where _is_ Sebastian Moran these days?”

“What of him?”, Jim snaps at Irene, “Sebastian is a fool. He could have abandoned them - he knew they would be walking into a human abattoir…”

“That's not Moran and you know it. Are you disappointed? Poor Sebastian - loyal unto death to King and Country, after all. Maybe that’s how you’ll bond with this one...his little Captain, your brave, strapping Colonel...", Irene gestures back to the room where Sherlock Holmes is held. "How does the poem run? ‘ _...I could not love thee, dear, so much I loved not honour more’  -_ And now? Look at you both - war widows. _”_

“Irene…”, there is a terrifying, mad glint to Moriarty’s eyes as he paces towards her - his fingers flex.

Irene immediately subsides, “I’ve spoken out of turn, Jim. Forgive me. You need your nurse now. Is there anything you require first, or shall we dose him right away?”

“I want him conscious. Then I want him begging.”

“Of course, Jim”, Irene returns to the kitchen after gathering her supplies.

* * *

 “Mr Holmes - I will be needing your arm”, Irene slides Sherlock’s shirt cuff back, swabbing the vein with alcohol, “Well - I suspected this might be difficult. You weren’t always careful, were you?”

“My needles were always clean”, Sherlock slurs, still under the influence of the earlier drug.

“That’s a mighty concession when you are practically living on the streets.”

“It never got that bad…”

“And that wasn’t _your_ doing…”

Sherlock is silent underneath his hood. At length, he speaks.

“Miss Adler, isn’t it? I don’t know what he holds over you - though I have my suspicions - you don’t have to do this.”

Irene laughs, without humour, “My dear boy - it’s immaterial to me. Jim wants you - and he will have you. Consider me your angel of mercy - at least this part, you enjoy.”

“I don’t want it”, Sherlock begins to strain against his bonds.

“Well - you have many options, Mr Holmes - but every single one begins with my needle in your arm - so let’s begin”, Irene nods to Jeff, who holds Holmes' arm steady - and she injects the heroin. In a few moments, Holmes goes limp. The chauffeur bends to take his body to Moriarty.

“Mr Moriarty won’t like it - wanted 'im conscious, diddn’ee?”

“It’s difficult to calibrate a dose for a long-term addict. He’s been clean for longer than Jim suspected - next time will be better. Meanwhile - make him comfortable...in Mr Moriarty’s bed.”

Jeff leaves the kitchen, and Irene walks over to the cloudy window - opening her compact. It’s mirror flashes a series of signals outside. Then, adjusting the edge of her lipstick, Irene closes the compact and returns to the lounge to face Moriarty.

 

## 7 June 1944 - 2300 hours - Diogenes Club

“Sir? Message from Gravesend.”

Mycroft Holmes does not look up from his paper at his desk in the Diogenes Club’s Strangers Room, “Close the door, Harrow - then read it out.”

Corporal Harrow responds with alacrity, closing the door and standing close to Mycroft’s desk, “Priory - SH dosed, 2H - 1 repeat’..that is all that it says, Sir.”

“Thank you, Harrow. Dismissed.”

Mycroft has bought more time - but he fears it will not be nearly enough to extract his brother while the Normandy Invasion rages around them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Royal Marines 47 Commando were an integral part of the Normandy Invasion - liberating Port en Bessan - which would serve as a supply pipeline for the Allied Forces until Cherbourg was taken.  
> LCA = Landing Craft Assault
> 
> The SOE was active in France prior to the Normandy invasion. Rommell was surprised by the invasion - but he presciently elected to increase the defences of the Normandy beaches - largely due to their resemblance the beachhead in Italy where the Allies began their re-invasion of Europe.


	20. It's Always You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes some minutes for him to realize he isn’t wearing the Royal Navy uniform anymore - just some silken pajama pants. There is a flicker at the back of his brain - like a snippet of a silent film reel - that tells him this should concern him, but - like everything else - it slips away. Hands caress his hair, trace over his cheekbones, and down across his chest. He closes his eyes and gives himself over to the sensation, imagining that John is with him....

**8 June 1944 - Normandy, Escures RAP**  
Capt. John H. Watson watches his Colonel sleeping fitfully. Moran was hit organizing a raid on the Chateau which had become a Nazi sniper school. In the true spirit of the Royal Marines, when he briefly came to - he saw John and said, “Well - I guess I’m lucky he had not finished training”, before passing out again from blood loss.

Moran’s shoulder is hit - but not cleanly. Fragments of splintered bone cannot be resected in the crude field hospital - but Watson has done what he could to stanch the bleeding. 2nd Devon took some of the less wounded soldiers for transport back home, but Moran was deemed insufficiently stable for transport.

In the small hours of the morning, he wakes again, “So Doc, I’m still here - they don’t think I’ll make it. What do you think, John?”

“I think your sniper would have to repeat his course, and his shot was not a clean one”, Watson makes a note on the rough chart and goes to move away, but Moran stops him.

“I am dying, Captain - and you have no where you need to be”, Moran speaks slowly, it is costing him a great effort to continue.

“Sir - best that you rest now. If you remain stable through the night, you are for England by morning - 2nd Devon will…”.

“Dammit, Watson. I will not see morning, and we both know it!”

A hard look comes over Capt Watson’s face, “If you have need of a padre, _Sir_ , I can see if he’s available - but I’m not here to hear your confession”.

“Good. I’m not asking your forgiveness. Can’t - he said..., well, and I did it - and I’d do it again - I’m not sorry”, Moran’s breathing is becoming laboured, “...for you, it will be the same. Yours will use you up, then fuck off on his little soldier. Hell, maybe even Holmes will be with Jim - _the weakness of genius_ , he calls it...needs an audience of its peers…”.

“No, he won’t’, John sniffs with rage, “..even if it isn’t me for him - for damn sure it’s not Moriarty. Not. Ever”.

“So you say….so you may even believe….so I thought, once too. But I was wrong, and so are you. Eh? You are... _so...beautiful_ now. Holmes loves your beauty - but no one is coming back from this campaign in any way but shattered. You will lose him - then Jim will find him out….”, Moran trails off, coughing.

John is incensed - but he catches a look in the colonel’s eyes that causes his anger to crack open and drain away. Moran is scared - if anything, he wishes John would put him out of his misery, instead of waiting for death or transport. He thinks back to something Mycroft once said.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. But even if they are, I’m still glad it was him...just like you with Jim”, Watson prepares another injection of morphine, Moran lifts his identity tags from his chest and presses them into Watson’s hands.

“Are you...glad? I think maybe….I’m not. Jim is a great man, I never asked...if he was..a good one. But maybe yours...still could be...”, Moran is drifting now.

“I believe he could be”, John pushes the needle home in his arm, “Good night, Colonel” - and walks away.

Moran is dead by morning, John slips his tags into his pocket and prepares to move out in 47 Commando.

* * *

 

**June 1944, Gravesend - The Priory House**  
Sherlock wakes to a sad song in a thready Irish tenor.

“You’re back. Irene is a bit far from her nursing training, it’s true. And again - I don’t know that she was ever working with pure, uncut heroin during her extended Florence Nightingale schtick”, Jim laughs. He plays with Sherlock’s lank, messy curls, “But as long as she didn’t kill you, I could wait - after all - from here on out, it’s you and me-eeee”, he sing-songs.

Sherlock can feel the itching under his skin, but the hands in his hair are just lovely. All of the clamouring voices in his head are blissfully silent - he is floating on the edges of a heroin rush. It takes some minutes for him to realize he isn’t wearing the Royal Navy uniform anymore - just some silken pajama pants. There is a flicker at the back of his brain - like a snippet of a silent film reel - that tells him this should concern him, but - like everything else - it slips away. Hands caress his hair, trace over his cheekbones, and down across his chest. He closes his eyes and gives himself over to the sensation, imagining that John is with him, the war is over and they lay on a blanket under the elm tree that stands alone - some meters in front of the wooded copse of the Holmes country pile. The dream is a good one, but reality keeps bleeding through - the scent of the brackish water of the Thames, instead of cut hay, dark hair, not blonde hovering over his chest, the fingers that touch him do not have the finesse of his surgeon-soldier. This last pulls Sherlock back from his pleasant reverie. John. John is invading France - he could be dead - this is not John. This realization doesn’t ache as it should - heroin, again - but it steadies Sherlock enough to try to break free.

“Bathroom?”, Sherlock lurches up.

“Sure, Sherly - just through there”, Jim gestures towards a former dressing room that has only recently installed indoor plumbing. Inside there is a toilet, a sink, and a claw-footed bath that makes Sherlock itch with longing. He tries to close the door, but Jim stops him, “No telling what you would get up to in here unsupervised”, Jim leers.

“I just have to take a piss”, Sherlock’s years of addiction mean that he clears the drug quickly from his system. While he mimes a traditional ‘heroin nod’, his brain came back online and examined his circumstances. The initial injection from Irene must have contained something other than heroin, something far stronger - like the Nazi drug Eukodol - said to be twice as strong as morphine. Irene administered it and Jim didn’t know, “Are you really going to stand there and watch?”.

“Do you object?”  
Sherlock pushes his revulsion down, “That depends,...did we..?”.

“Nooooo. Noooooo. I wanted our first time to be special - well, at least conscious”, Jim rubs his hands together greedily.

“Then I think we should reserve you seeing all of me for when I’m fit to be seen. Let me take a bath, at least - my hair is filthy”, Sherlock speaks slowly, languidly. He can see that Moriarty has swallowed the bait - wanting to believe that Sherlock is preparing himself for Jim’s bed.

Jim smiles, “Towels are in the cupboard. Don’t be too long”, Jim smooths his hands down Sherlock’s chest, and misinterprets the shiver as pleasurable.

With the door closed, Sherlock starts filling the tub, as a cover for examining the room. Like many manor house dressing rooms, the wall contains a secret panel from which a valet (or mistress) can easily enter or leave. When the room was converted to a bath, the passage was not removed - it was partially blocked by the installation of the tub. Fortunately, the door opens out into the passageway to the servants quarters. Sherlock shuts the water, and lets the bath drain a bit under cover of flushing the toilet. Then he turns the hot water spigot on, grabs a dressing gown and slippers from the wardrobe, and with a press of the panel - he disappears down the narrow hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's Always You**  
>  If a breeze caresses me  
> It's really you strolling by  
> If I hear a melody  
> It's merely the way you sigh  
> Wherever you are, you're near me  
> You dare me to be untrue  
> Funny, each time I fall in love  
> It's always you
> 
> Songwriters: James Van Heusen / Johnny Burke


	21. I'll Be Seeing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case of mistaken identity as both Sherlock and John return from the front lines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didja miss me? :)  
> I admit, I was seduced away by the Call Me By Your Name fandom for a little while. I also had some ideas for how I would re-write this entire thing which made it difficult to face - but I decided that I spent too much time researching WW2 to leave this in a lurch, so I will complete the story. Perhaps no one cares but me - but that is what makes fanfic so glorious: I am really the only one who needs to care at all.

##  10 June 1944 - Diogenes Club

With news of greater and greater casualties mounting, Mycroft cannot appear eager to hear the news from Gravesend. Nonetheless, it disheartens him when it comes. Moriarty has not emerged from hiding, Adler has not signalled again.

There are others at SHAEF, who are now getting the blow-by-blow of the Normandy invasion - the casualties are astronomical.  _ A calculated risk...that’s how the American Eisenhower described it…’calculated risk’ - those words are a lie - a pretence at measuring the cost, and finding it acceptable. But calling the invasion a ‘calculated risk’ implies that Eisenhower believed the math, and it is impossible that our Supreme Commander did so - certainly not after he read the unredacted intelligence reports I sent him. _

Mycroft scowls, will nothing today yield? He reaches for the button to ring for Wilder when there is a knock on the door - two sharp knocks, a pause, then a third. 

“Enter, Group Captain Wood,” a sharply dressed RAF officer enters the Strangers Lounge.

“Sorry to disturb, Mr Holmes. Something you may have misplaced has been turned over to the RAF, Sir,” the airman slides a naval lieutenant dress uniform gold button across the desk to Mycroft. 

“Is it still in good condition,” Mycroft stares down at the button from Sherlock’s uniform.

Group Captain Wood nods at the button, “Seems to be in order, Sir.”

“Thank you, Group Captain Wood,” Mycroft intones, nodding towards the door, “Dismissed”.

The RAF officer seems surprised that Mycroft is not leaving with him, but he masters his expression and salutes, “Sir!”

After Woods leaves, Mycroft rings for Wilder, “Lunch, I think - something light, Wilder. I will be leaving shortly - inform my driver.”

“Very good, Mr Holmes,” Wilder leaves, making way for another officer, Captain Grosvenor.

Grosvenor waits until the door has swung closed behind him, “Sir - the special monitoring report - may I speak freely, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Sir - Capt Watson was attached to 47 Commando as Medical Officer. Last known location was the Escures RAP. He was thought to be captured, but was listed among the dead in the last muster report for the 47.”

“You seem unsure, Grosvenor,” Mycroft observes.

“There was a conflicting report from his Corporal Murray - but perhaps his information is merely outdated. I will continue to investigate, of course, Sir,” Grosvenor looks nervous. Mycroft holds cold, hard logic above all else - but - if he were to credit such an unscientific concept as a ‘hunch’ - the report is wrong.

Mycroft sighs, “Come with me, Captain. It appears I am needed in Gravesend,” Wilder returns with a lunch cart, “Wilder, good man. Regrettably - a change in plans, send that back to the kitchen - tell Jennings, we leave now.”

  


##  7 June 1944 - Normandy, Road to Port-en-Bessin

The Marines have secured the port but at such a cost. Captain Watson had not paused for one minute, binding wounds, triaging those with the best chance of survival, and arranging final transport for those whom this war is over. The CO ( _ Was he acting CO? This is just chaos.) _ \- ordered us to load artillery (first) and men (secondarily) into the carriers and proceed to Port-en-Bessin. After three days without sleep, Capt. Watson and two of the stretcher-bearers were exhausted - body and mind. There were several dugouts in the area around the RAP, and in two of these the men, Watson and Murray bedded down for a couple hours of much-needed sleep.

When they woke, the sun was already high in the sky.  0700 hours - and eerily quiet.

“Murray - go see if those laggards are still bunked down? We aren’t on a seaside holiday.”

“Yes, sir,” Murray nods and scrambles out of their ditch.

“Murray - take your weapon. Quiet is NOT necessarily a good thing. Jesus,” Watson climbs out, weapon at the ready to find no one, other than the two stretcher bearers. 

The sound of tires over gravel has all four men drawing their weapons on the gendarme bicycling down the road.    
“Are you lost, gentlemen? You were attacked last night - the Germans capture this place. Your comrades are went into Port-en-Bessin,” he laughs, “Le port a été capturé. Vous pourriez aussi bien rejoindre la fête. Captured by Englishmen, bien?”

“Wouldn’t you know it, Murray? They finally decide to throw a war, and we sleep right through the best bits. Can you point us in the right direction, officer?” Watson rubs the back of his neck.

“D’accord! Nous allons réquisitionner les bicyclettes. I will lead you to there!” the gendarme sweeps his arms grandly, and the four soldiers smile and follow.

Near Fosse Soucy, they encounter a wounded Marine from Y-troop. The stretcher-bearers and gendarme want to continue, but Watson knows if he doesn’t bind the soldier’s wounds, he won’t survive.

“If you need to, go ahead. I’ll take care of this man. Give me your kit, Murray,” Watson snaps.

“Request permission to stay with you, sir?” Murray says immediately.

“Murray - you don’t need to stick with me on every suicide mission,” Watson is about to order him to continue.

“Keeps things interesting, Sir,” Murray turns to the soldier in the ditch, “Marine - we are going to bind you up and get you under cover. Germans are still about, but we hold the port. The captain will send a carrier for you once we get there,” he reassures the frightened boy.

Watson is bent over the young Marine, putting a field dressing on his shattered leg. Murray scouts the best location to hide the man for later pick-up.

“Doc...I..am I making it back, sir?” the soldier grips John’s shirt and tags.

“Your ballroom dancing days may be numbered,” John jokes gently. The Marine pulls tightly on John, which is why John never sees the sniper, doesn’t anticipate the bullet coming. It whistles through the air, exploding through Watson’s shoulder. His tags fall away as he straightens and screams. Another shot runs through the Marine’s head, killing him instantly.

Murray stays under the cover of the hedgerow until the sniper moves down the road. The young marine is dead. Watson is alive but floating in and out of consciousness.

“Dear god, Cap’t! Come on! Come on, John - you can’t leave me in the middle of the road,” Murray binds the wound tightly, pulling John’s body into the cover of the trees. He keeps Watson awake for another hour when the carrier from the RAP arrives under fire. Sgt. Ellis yanks the body of the dead Marine into the back and comes back for Murray and Watson. Murray is redeployed to the Allied RAP, and John is transferred to 2nd Devon for transport home.

“What goes on the toe tag for this one?” the stretcher-bearer closes the eyes of the young Marine that Capt. Watson could not save. His mate looks at the tags in the dead man’s hands, “Watson...Captain John Watson, RAMC...German bastards killed a medic.”

  



	22. Do Nothing ‘Til You Hear From Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits Gravesend RAF and receives some intel regarding Captain John Watson. John is caught up in a case of mistaken identity that could have costly consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued interest - and many thanks to Posh-Boy-Clever-Boy, my awesome beta.

##  11 June 1944 - Gravesend

Mycroft’s limousine passes through the security gates at the RAF facility in Gravesend. He is taken to Group Captain Wood and leaves Capt. Grosvenor to follow up on the lead regarding John Watson. 

Mycroft enters the medical bey and looks at the gurney holding his beloved little brother. There are marks on Sherlock’s face, his nails are broken and irregular. His arms display bruises - both from being manhandled and also from tapping his weakened veins. While Sherlock sleeps, Mycroft allows himself one minute to drop his composure. He grasps Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock wakes - and observes his brother silently.

“Jim Moriarty has been using the Priory as a base of operations - can’t be for long, he didn’t realize there was a valet entrance to the dressing room,” Sherlock attempts a grin.

Mycroft smiles, “And you thought Eton was worthless.”

“I don’t have much else, Mycroft. He injected me with...with heroin, something else too - since when was Irene Adler yours?” Sherlock asks.

Mycroft nods as though Sherlock said something particularly clever, “Well done, you. Miss Adler? Long enough. Let us say that the events of the past week, while unfortunate - were not entirely unforeseen.”

“They weren’t? Perhaps next time you would be so good as to share your intelligence - so I don’t need to blunder in the dark?” he tries for a sharp tone, but exhaustion blunts the force of his statement. 

“Even in captivity, you served your King and country, Sherlock. Moriarty was distracted - the plans he sold to Rommel were false. You deserve the Victoria Cross - you will never get it, though,” Mycroft muses. 

“I failed - I don’t have any further intel,” Sherlock admits.

“I will personally see to James Moriarty - and his associates. But the war is over, Sherlock. It’s only a matter of time. Rest now - I will see about your transfer back to London, especially given your...medical condition. Is there...anything beyond the obvious that needs attention?” Mycroft’s gaze is sharp.

“Nothing, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, I never had him pegged as such a gentleman. He must have been quite taken with you.”

“He...well, you’ve said it best, brother dear - Caring is not an advantage. And if he allowed me to turn his head, so be it - but the feeling was not mutual, Mycroft.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Brother mine.”

 

The Germans shell the RAF outpost in Gravesend regularly, so Mycroft has Sherlock moved to one of the secure cement bunkers while awaiting transport. Mycroft and Grosvenor make the other room into a makeshift headquarters.

“Sir - Colonel Moran. He is listed as critically injured but alive on a hospital ship bound for England. Your orders, sir?” 

“Captain - Colonel Sebastian Moran does not deserve to land on England’s shore...but it would be beneficial if that could be effected outside of more formal channels. I can have your orders for Southampton by nightfall. Take care of it, Grosvenor - quietly,” Mycroft’s mouth sets in a thin line.

“Sir!”

“Now - what of Captain Watson?”

“Sir, we have further intel on Watson - it appears that a body with his tags arrived for processing for the burial grounds at Bayeaux. I’m sorry, sir,” Grosvenor removes his hat and Mycroft stands, pouring them each a drink.

“I am sorry to hear it - to Capt John Hamish Watson, to absent friends,” Mycroft and Grosvenor drink to Watson’s life. 

Sherlock - standing behind the partially open door - slides to the ground, soundlessly.  _ John, my John is...gone. Goddamn him, he didn’t have to go - Mycroft could have had it arranged.  _ Sherlock takes stock of his injuries (minimal) and the pain from withdrawal (considerable) - he makes a decision. Sherlock waits for Mycroft and Grosvenor to leave before entering the office. There is a small cabinet with linens and uniforms - sized for his brother, but that doesn’t matter now. He dresses and combs down his matted hair.  _ It will do - enough to get past the gate, at least.  _ Sherlock looks at the papers on Mycroft’s desk. He sees the earlier intel report with John’s picture attached, suggesting that he may have only been wounded. Sherlock takes the picture, leaves the rest and exits the bunker.

He stumbles across the small compound to where he sees Mycroft’s driver. One of the local mechanics offers him a nip from a flask, and he steps into the garage. Sherlock seizes his chance, sliding into Mycroft’s limo and heading towards the gate, on his way back to London.

He is numb through his drive, images of his all too brief time with John playing through his mind. He cannot cry, he cannot mourn. Sherlock returns to his flat, estimating that he will have at least another 30 minutes before his brother catches up. He washes and changes into his own clothes - collects money and distributes it into pockets - then leaves, without a backward glance. Sherlock is heading for a part of the city where once, he was well known.

The door slides open when Sherlock knocks, he pulls a brown morocco case containing a syringe from his breast pocket. The old man nods and brings him a dressing gown and a packet of heroin - nearly impossible to find. The black market drug will have dubious ties - potentially leading back to Moriarty, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He prepares his own needle, letting the ritual preparation ease the shaking in his limbs. He shoots up and falls over before he can remove the needle from his arm. The old man removes the needle and checks to make sure he is out, then shuffles towards the phone and places a call.

##  13 June 1944 - Southampton

The hospital ship docks in Southampton today. After transferring patients, it’s back to the Channel for them. As it stands, patients are stacked two deep all around - nursing in bunks. They only took those who stood a good chance of making it through to the other side, and still many were lost. 

The soldier turns his head on the pillow, trying to find a cool place. The wound on his shoulder suppurated, his body is fighting infection - and losing. The charge nurse shakes her head.  _ Wounded stacked two deep all around - we can barely keep track of them, let alone keep them from dying. _ They keep him sedated, this... _ Colonel Sebastian Moran…. _ otherwise he screams. His condition is far from unique; there are literally hundreds of men surrounding him in a similar position. But there is something different about Moran. 

Nurse Conway looks around the ward,  _ the flower of England’s youth...and America’s _ . Some soldiers scream or cry out - tormented by the battlefield they left behind. Moran is different - he screams as though his entire world were ending. He calls out his own name, in terror. And there is another name -  _ Sherlock -  _ said with such love and care _.  _ Nurse Conway smiles,  _ Could be the boy’s dog?  _ Boy - he’s made Colonel, but the man in the lower bunk looks barely thirty years old.  _ Bloody idiots in HQ - no one can tell me that they didn’t know this would be a like a mass suicide mission.  _ Colonel Moran falls silent again, the sedative is working. She looks towards the entrance of the ward - Navy Brass on tour,  _ no bloody warning either. They’ll probably sniff around Moran, as he’s a bleeding colonel - safe as houses, that bet. All about the common Tommy until one of these ‘inspections’ - then they seek out the officers - make sure they are being treated like princes.  _ Nurse Conway roughly fluffs up Moran’s pillow and wipes his forehead with a damp flannel.  _ Cor, not the dying Colonel’s fault, that - Beatrice. _ She retreats to the nursing station and watches the progress of the tour. 

They glide past the sleeping Moran, almost all of them do, except one captain. He’s looking down at Moran with a mystified expression. He looks up and notices Nurse Conway’s surreptitious surveillance.

“You are the charge nurse in this ward?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. Nurse Conway, sir,” she replies, approaching the bunk.

“I...who identified this soldier?”

“He had an identity tag, sir. Is there a problem?” Nurse Conway cannot make heads or tails of the naval officer’s expression.

“I know Colonel Moran - this is not Moran. Was he conscious when he was brought in?” 

“He’s been quite delirious since he was brought aboard the ship, Captain…”

“Captain Grosvenor, Nurse Conway...I believe this man was part of Moran’s command. His name is Captain John H. Watson. See to it that the records are updated to reflect this?” Captain Grosvenor smiles, as though he were lightly pleased to correct this minor administrative detail.

“Yes, sir,” Nurse Conway picks up the soldier’s chart and brings it back to the nursing station.


	23. I’ll Get By As Long As I Have You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins the slow journey back to health in England. Sherlock must face his demons.

##  Summer into Fall, 1944 - Southampton

“Cap’t - I believe this is called coming full circle. Extend the arm again, sir?”

John struggles to lift and flex his dominant hand. Physical rehabilitation initially improved his movement - but he quickly plateaued. Now John waited in Netley - where he began his medical training. His physical health was alarming, depressing even - a physician and a surgeon without the use of his dominant hand. His mental health was worse.

“Hold for me, sir? Just a minute longer…,” but John’s arm falls.

“Dammit!” In anger, John knocks the tray of therapy aides to the floor with his good arm. He flops back into the bed, embarrassed by his outburst.

“Captain, this is why I’m no drill sergeant. He’d have you picking up all of this with your wounded arm. I’m just going to tell you what you already must know. It’s a long road, a frustrating one. Some men might see it as good news that they will no longer be candidates for German cannon fodder - but I know what being a surgeon meant to you and I can’t guarantee you will get there even with rehabilitation. But I can tell you - the only way to find out is to try, to fight through physical therapy the same way you fought through Nazis on the beach. And you are not trying. Captain Watson - no disrespect intended - but it’s time you either buck up or give up and let someone who wants to fight have the bed,” John meets his eyes, surprised at the blunt end to the speech. He thinks for a moment, then nods. With a measured look, the therapist picks up the small weight and tells John, “Now - extend again, please…”

Slowly - John improves.

* * *

Several weeks go by and Corporal Murray reappears at John’s bedside, “Cap’t - you gave me a right scare,” he glances around the ward then sits on the bed at John’s side.

“I never got to say thank you, Murray. So...thank you for keeping the presence of mind to save me,” John is grateful.

“It’d be a poor tribute to your drill if I didn’t, Sir. But here you are - back to England and mending?”

“Slowly, Murray...and not so sure as I’d hoped,” John stares down at his trembling left hand.

“Why the cane, Cap’t?”

“Well - that is an interesting question to which no one seems to have an acceptable answer. There was bruising - but no ligament or skeletal injury….it just - doesn’t work. Hurts. Even if I could stop my hand from shaking, I cannot stand, Bill. I just…” John trails off, unable to master the emotion in his voice - he opts to remain silent.

“John Watson - no one comes back from that all right. It will yield - you are the most stubborn blighter I’ve ever known,” Bill looks around to make sure they are out of earshot, “What about that Sherlock bloke? You’ve got reason enough to want to get out of that cot and stand, surely?”

John inhales sharply, “Ah - he doesn’t...you know, with his connexions in SHAEF, I thought he might know that I was here.”

“Did you contact him?”

“Eventually...I did. Once I had enough control over my hand to write, I sent him a letter. Not exactly something I could dictate to Matron, is it? A right shakey mess it was, too. But nothing that wouldn’t make it past the censors. Still…,” John trails off sadly.

“I cannot believe that is all there is to the story, sir. There must be a reason - perhaps he was deployed on a ship?”

“Perhaps,” John smiles gently. He knows that Sherlock wasn’t deployed and that his connection to information went far deeper than a posting to HQ. Sherlock told John when they parted “ _ You will come back. And when you do - no matter where you are - I will find you. _ ” John has come to the conclusion that Sherlock does not want to look for John. In some ways, it feels worse than losing his identity as a soldier, a surgeon...even this hidden piece of himself that the military could not take away is gone.

Murray just nods his head slowly and studies his captain.

 

##  Summer 1944 - London

“Sherlock - I’d rather hoped we had seen the end of this particularly dramatic, death-seeking hobby of yours. Imagine my disappointment,” Mycroft sighs.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sneers, “you are never quite so overwhelmingly tedious as when I am high. How did you even find me? I’d have seen your low-rent, clumsy excuses for spies if I were followed”.

“Simple, brother dear - Mr Chan has been in my employ for some time. This was never your primary opium den, so if you wanted to avoid detection, you would - of course - avoid your favoured locations. I had hoped that Mr Chan would prove to be a bad investment - but here we are”.

“You can’t incarcerate me...”

“On the contrary, Sherlock. I can do whatever I wish with you, including pack you off for another rest-cure, indefinitely,” Mycroft threatens. Sherlock does not even turn to face his brother - he just doesn't care anymore.

Mycroft examines his brother, “You weren’t intending to wake,” it is a statement, not a question. “John Watson’s death - are you so eager to follow? Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“So you’ve said…”

“You are worth more than this, Sherlock. John Watson’s life…”

“Don’t you dare presume to measure its worth, Mycroft! My life is trivial in comparison - and I find that a world without John Watson holds little allure,” Sherlock snaps.

“You misunderstand, brother. The loss of John Watson’s life was ennobled by the cause he served. It would be a poor tribute to his memory for you to squander yours. That is the last thing John would have ever wanted, Sherlock,” Mycroft adds, softly.

“Be SILENT!” Sherlock reels as he stands, shaking with pain and overwhelming grief. He collapses to the ground at Mycroft’s feet, wracked with sobs. Mycroft is unaccustomed to such outbursts and uncomfortable with demonstrations of emotion. He looks utterly lost as he reaches out to comfort his brother. Whispering into Sherlock’s curls, he says, “I will see you through this, Sherlock. You won’t be alone. You will never be alone.”

 


	24. You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John marches the slow road to recovery, Sherlock does not.

##  July 1944 - Diogenes Club, London

“Captain Grosvenor to see you,” Wilder intones at the door of the Stranger’s Room.

“Send him in, Wilder. Thank you,” Mycroft takes some small vengeful comfort that this piece of Moriarty’s great game has been played to victory.

“Captain - I take it our great matter has been resolved satisfactorily?” Mycroft studies Grosvenor - his face is as excited as a schoolboy. If he were reporting on a successful mission, such animation would be - at a minimum - unseemly.

“Not exactly, sir. I did report to Netley, as ordered. Upon arrival, I made a tour with the other naval officers. The facility is generally organized and well run - considering the volume of patients returning from the European theatre,” Grosvenor continues.

Mycroft frowns, “Yes, as fascinating as this glimpse into our medical readiness…”

“For example,” Grosvenor talks over Mycroft, an almost unheard of proceeding, “I was able to rectify a small clerical error of patient identity. The man they had listed as Colonel Sebastian Moran - well, I recognized him from Rainbow Corner - it was the Singing Doctor, Capt Watson. I expect there are more of these clerical errors - we should put Netley and the other field hospitals on alert,” Grosvenor finishes, his face becomes solemn.

“Quite. Well observed, Grosvenor. And Captain Watson?”

“...is alive, sir. But he is extremely unwell. Sniper shot - would have drilled him, but he was rising from a crouching position - taking care of a wounded Marine who is now deceased. Watson's wounds are infected, his doctor does not like his chances, sir.”

“And?”

“And the Charge Nurse said he’s fighting harder than any grunt on that beachhead - he may pull through,” Grosvenor concludes.

“Well done, Captain. Dismissed.”

_ This gives me much to consider. Above all, this must be hidden from Sherlock. If he has John Watson, only to lose him again - Sherlock will be lost forever. _

##  November 1944 - Netley, Royal Victoria Hospital

“Capt Watson - someone to see you, Captain,” Nurse Conway smiles, depositing Corporal Bill Murray at the foot of John’s cot.

“Murray!”

“Sir!” Murray snaps off a quick salute then takes John’s arm as he stands for a half-handshake half-hug, “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Murray continues, blushing.

“Cor - you’ve been hanging ‘round those Yanks so long, you’ve picked up their lingo,” John smiles and gestures for Bill to sit on the end of the bed. John also resumes his seat, extending his leg along the mattress.

“Ah - the Yanks left me lonely, sir. I was hoping I’d be asked to take Paris with them,” Murray smiles.

“Does the city of lights seem in dire need of skilled nursing?”

Bill smiles and leans in to whisper, “No - but I made a particular friend in the American Medical Corps who is likely to be lonely now that I took up with our Marines again.”

John laughs, an unaccustomed sound - even for him.

Murray continues, “Although the way those Yanks talked about Paris - it seems likely my friend will be dosing them all for the clap instead of patching up boys that Jerry used for target practice.”

“Are you back with 47 Commando? What brings you through Netley, Murray?”

Bill’s face falls, “You haven’t heard, then? You’ll find a familiar face at Netley, sir. At least, he’ll be here until he’s stable enough for transfer - I was sent to accompany him, he wasn’t...well.”

John’s stomach falls, “Who?”

“Major Sholto, sir,” John looks around the ward, “He’s...he ain’t on this ward, innit? After you fell, the Major went with 47 Commando as their medical officer… He...,” here, Murray drops down into a bare whisper, “He were with us at Walcheren, pinned down on the dunes. Well...you know the Major, he lies there, cool as you please, while Jerry is finally dialin’ in the mortar fire. They finally hit - we lost a number of men. But there is now’t to go but through it. Major Sholto - when he sees the Marines hit - he climbs out and starts patching who he can until 5 filthy krauts come up, they toss a grenade on to the stretcher. One the bearers - he’s blown up right away...the Major, his face is burnt up something awful and his arm...but not his shooting arm. He picks up the dead Marine’s pistol and sends the lot of them to hell. Good riddance. Major Sholto is a right hero - but he...he’s not spoke a word since I brought him out. They sent me with him because his wounds needed round the clock care”.

“Can I see him?”

“I’ll ask the nurse in charge - perhaps I can take you before they ship me off to somewhere else unforgivable." 

Murray and Watson sit in awkward silence for a moment. Murray takes a deep breath and soldiers on,"I...I also wanted to tell you… John," Murray's voice caresses the name familiarly, "When they came for your things, I kept hold of your notebook..your diary. I didn’t know - if there was aught in them that the brass shouldn’t know of - if you take my meaning,” Murray hangs his head, bracing for John’s anger, but it never arrives.

“No - you were right to...watch my back. If you still have them, you can burn’em, Bill.”

“You don’t want to give them to your naval lieutenant?”

“He’s not mine. I thought he might come - I’ve been here long enough, he must know...but he never came. I nearly died, and he never came. We are a bit off from ‘wherever you are, I will find you’, I reckon,” John sighs.

“John, what you two had - maybe you believe that it is all over, but I can’t help but think you are dead wrong,” Murray shakes his head emphatically.

“Burn the notebook. If I’m right - reading it through will only hurt me; if I’m wrong….well, I don’t think I’m wrong,” John’s jawline tightens, “Now - Major Sholto - I have an hour before they drag me off for more physio, can you wheel me over to see him?”

 

##  October 1944 - New York City, Drug Rehabilitation Facility

Sherlock woke to the nauseous reeling sensation that only could mean one thing: Mycroft must have found him again. Since June, Sherlock had been committed to - and had escaped - at least 3 different rehabilitation facilities. Three locations with doctors, cold baths, massage - shuffling addicts in every corner, ignoring each other like strangers on a bus. Each time, after the hell of detox, it was child’s play for Sherlock to escape. The first two times, he quickly made his way back to London - back to his second favourite dealer of opiates, back to injectable cocaine in a 7% solution, and consuming in such quantities as he never had before. It made him sloppy. Mycroft could easily run a war and recapture Sherlock after only a few days - the first time. 

Rehab #4 was in New York City - it had an excellent reputation, an enormous price tag, and dozens of chain-smoking, shaking benzedrine addicts shuffling up and down the hallways. Sherlock had made a study of the differences in withdrawal from alcohol (the other favoured substance) and amphetamines. Alcoholics’ hands shook; speed heads trembled all over. Addicts were given hallucinogens and told to find God. Sherlock stayed for three weeks: the first because he was sedated with chloral hydrate, the second because he met a handsome scion of the American aristocracy (such as it was)  - and while Sherlock rolled his eyes at the very idea of God as a celestial being, Victor Trevor on his knees sucking Sherlock’s cock was a heavenly respite for his rebellious transport.

“Jesus, Holmes - where were you? They’ll be in to dose me again in 20 minutes,” Victor’s shaking hands go to work on the tie of Sherlock’s pyjama pants.

“Boring. You could skip your dose, you know. God knows you are useless for a good hour after you go under,” Sherlock leans against the door as Trevor kneels, “Cover your teeth.”

Sherlock drags on his cigarette and steadfastly ignores the man running his tongue along the underside of Sherlock’s cock. Victor takes Sherlock’s length in his mouth and sucks, hollowing his cheeks. Sherlock can feel the tension curling in his pelvis, he thrusts into the wet depth of the mouth that encircles him, palming the back of Trevor’s head. When he closes his eyes, Victor’s fine strawberry curls transform into a razor-sharp blonde military cut - Sherlock focuses on the memory of John Watson so he can ignore the tactile feedback of the wrong hair, the wrong man desperately working his cock. Sherlock steadies Victor’s head and thrusts roughly as he brings himself off. In a moment of weakness, Sherlock cries, “John!”

Victor sits back on his heels after Sherlock finishes, “My name’s not ‘John’, you bastard”.

Sherlock opens his eyes, his fantasy broken and sees Victor standing and fumbling to release his own hard prick from its satin confines. Sherlock yanks his pyjamas up and pulls free of Victor’s grip. 

“What? You don’t mean to leave me like this? My hands are shaking too hard to deal with it myself!”

“Regrettable side effect of drinking, Vic. When you get out, try speed instead,” Sherlock smiles and slips out of the room.

Nothing left to do but escape again, which Sherlock does before the end of week three. He finds a bare bones room in Chinatown and a supplier of French heroin - more precious than Victor Trevor’s heavy gold watch that Sherlock nicked, then sold to finance this latest drug binge.

##  November 1944 - Netley, Royal Victoria Hospital

“Major Sholto, Sir. You have a visitor,” the ward nurse says cheerfully.

Sholto grunts and turns away from the sound.

“Major? Corporal Murray told me you were here. I miss my old barracks-mates,” John wheels himself around to face Sholto, “James?”

Burns cover the top left half of his face, mostly covered by bandages. The skin that is visible is bright red and ravaged. James’ arm is in a sling. He does not meet John’s eyes.

“James,” John rolls closer to his former lover’s bedside and reaches out to hold his uninjured hand, “Please talk to me?”   
“Watson...John,” tears leak down the right side of his face, “John”.

“It’s OK. It’s alright, yeah? I’m not going anywhere, James,” John shields Major Sholto from view with his body.

Together the two wounded men sit in silence for the better part of an hour.

* * *

 

Corporal Murray looks down into his rucksack at the large envelope. The address is incomplete - John had jotted down “Montague Street” in the margin but not the number. Murray thinks the name - Sherlock Holmes - is the genuine article. This is his only chance to send mail outside of the normal, monitored military channels. Capt Watson told him to let it go - but the longing and sadness in his face...well, Murray is a romantic, and even if he cannot have John Watson - he wishes his Captain well. There is no way on earth that Watson will be well without Sherlock Holmes, and Holmes is a right bastard if he can read John’s words and harden his heart. It’s a risk - but one well worth taking. Murray nods and shoves the parcel in the pillar box.

##  December 1944 - Diogenes Club, London

“Mr Holmes,” Wilder enters the Strangers’ Room wheeling a small cart, “A courier left this packet of post for you. Shall I open it, sir?”

“No need, Wilder,” Mycroft gestures with his letter-opener.

“Anything else, sir?” Upon receiving a negative answer, Wilder retires.

Mycroft runs his hand over the packet of mail delivered to his brother’s Montague Street apartment. It has been almost a month - on reflection, sending Sherlock to America was not his most brilliant plan. He has proven much harder to track down after his inevitable escape. No doubt the funds obtained illegally through Victor Trevor played some small role in that - but also a clue to his whereabouts. Mycroft is rather well connected on both sides of the Atlantic, and there are only a few men who could aspire to fence jewellery of that quality. With any luck, his agents should close in on Sherlock’s location within a few days...although what Mycroft will do with him when he’s returned is a mystery. The New York clinic was perhaps a poor plan, but it was also a desperate last hope - short of incarceration, there was no way to stop Sherlock from finding drugs - or manufacturing them if the mood struck him. 

Rubbing his forehead, Mycroft turns to the pile of correspondence in front of him. Most of it is tedious - bills, the odd note from a client seeking Sherlock’s services...one item quickly catches Mycroft’s eye - it’s a parcel with no return address. 

The brown-paper-wrapped package seems battered - even the address is incomplete, therefore it may have taken longer to deliver. There are no censor marks on it - privately mailed then, although there is a suggestion of military precision in how the wrapping is cut and taped. The dimensions suggest the contents is a notebook. Hesitantly, Mycroft loosens the glued paper tape, sealing the makeshift envelope.

Mycroft examines the soldier’s diary inside. Oxblood red cover with the date on each page above a ruled double line. Penmanship is poor but legible. The first few entries are mere catalogues of training conditions and battle readiness drills - interspersed with some pithy observations on the men in this captain’s platoon. Mycroft flips ahead - the diary changes in early April, with the first entry titled “Dear Sherlock”.


	25. There Will Be Some Changes Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you won’t tell Sherlock that I came,” John asks angrily.
> 
> “No,” Mycroft offers no additional explanation.
> 
> John stretches and flexes his left hand, nods sharply and executes an about-face and steps away. Before he’s taken more than three paces, he stops without turning back to Mycroft, “If he still feels something for me, as you say he did...then he needs me to heal, just as I need him. If you are keeping me from him, he will never forgive you once I find him. And I will find him, Mycroft,” John squares his shoulders, and walks away - never looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has joined me on this historical WW2 AU journey (which now has one more chapter to its chapter count). Special thanks to Posh-Boy-Clever-Boy, who has gone beyond beta'ing into a bit of hand-holding and a**-kicking, as required, to bring this over the finish line.

## December 1944 - Netley, Royal Victoria Hospital

“Major - some Christmas cheer?” John Watson wheels himself to James Sholto’s bedside, sloshing a flask, “Courtesy of Harry - guess it’s her thought for a care package.”

James says nothing and turns away.

“James,” John whispers, leaning against his major’s pillow, “There is no need to pretend any longer. We - neither of us - is going to be any earthly good to the Army. I’m a surgeon with nerve damaged dominant hand, and you won’t even get out of bed for basic physio. If I were your drill sergeant, I’d have taken a crupper to you by now. You best thank your lucky stars that the Matron has taken a particular shine to you.”

James turns back now, frustration and disbelief warring in his healing face.

“Made you look,” John smiles flirtatiously.

James snorts, then speaks in a low whisper, “You always turned my head, John. That has not changed, but I have.”

“Turning your head seems like a promising start, James,” John moves closer.

“No. John - there was a time when I would have thanked God to hear you say such things, but not now - not when I cannot offer you a whole man.”

“Bullshit, James...Do you really think so poorly of me, that your scars would put me off? And if you have your scars, well - so do I,” John grasps the Major’s hand.

“The scars on the outside are enough to fright the birds off their branches - but I’m not so vain as all that. But - I’ve only ever been a soldier, and - truth be told - I am not entirely sure how to fit back into a world where nobody is calling me Major,” James shakes his head.

John is silent for a moment, and James finally meets his eyes. He smiles, then they both laugh. John grins, “Well, I can think of some circumstances wherein I might be able to call you Major still if you ever find yourself in the right mood to pull rank.” James looks back, scandalized - then both men dissolve in boyish giggles.

James pulls himself together first, “That’s enough, Captain. At any rate, John - I rather thought you fancied Navy whites nowadays?”

“James…”

“Watson...John, I saw you the night you returned from your last leave. If you were ever that in love with me, you hid it with all you have. And I rather suspect you will love him for as long as he is still in the world. I don’t...I am not good with sentimental nonsense, John. But I am not blind,” James pats John’s shoulder in a fraternal way.

John’s mouth opens several times, but no sound emerges.

James cocks his remaining eyebrow, “Let’s assume that I am right - then only one question remains, why are you loitering here? If my drill sergeant would have some strong words for me, so much more would yours, Watson.”

“James - it isn’t as though there is aught for me on the outside, either. I can’t sew anyone up with these hands,” John thrusts his shaking hands under James' nose. John pauses, thinking, “It’s all well to judge, isn’t it? That’s what you are telling me.”

“You are right - I’ve given up and I have no right to do it. There are boys we left behind, Walcheren and Normandy - who would give anything to be here, no matter how ravaged. I know that...I know,” Major Sholto takes a deep breath, and attempts to continue - but he has run out of words.

“If you won’t let me wallow in my heartbreak, Major;  I won’t let you give up.” John looks intently at James.

James nods his head, “So, physio? Might as well have a nip off that flask then, Captain. Happy Christmas, John.”

“Happy Christmas, James.”

## January 1945 - London

December came and went before John woke to Nurse Holloway bearing discharge paperwork. John worked earnestly with his therapists after his talk with Major Sholto, but to say his heart wasn’t in it was an understatement.

“Captain Watson, you have been granted an overnight leave - pending your final discharge paperwork, sir - you might want to go up to London and...arrange your affairs?”

“Arrange my affairs? Is it that terminal, Nurse Holloway?” John huffs.

“Don’t make me cross, Cap’t. We’ve spoken often enough - do you much fancy moving in with your blessed sister? Because I don’t think this war would stand an expansion on the home front. But - judging from your letters and her visit - I give you one week before you try to re-enlist if you elect to live with Harriet.”

“Good point, Jenny”

“ _Skilled_ nursing, John.”

* * *

So  - John finds himself in Tottenham Court Road, limping along towards the British Museum. He seems completely unconscious of where his legs lead him until he is standing outside of Sherlock’s door.

_Well, I’ve promised James, didn’t I?_

He lifts his hand to knock - still unsure what to say if Sherlock answers - when the door swings open and Captain John Watson, late of 47 Commando and RAMC is faced with a stunned silent Mycroft Holmes.

“Captain Watson!”

“Given our last encounter, I can hardly expect that it is possible to surprise you, Mycroft.”

“And yet, here we are,” Mycroft examines John thoroughly as John tries to look past Mycroft into the flat, “He isn’t here, Captain.”

“And I’m sure you would tell me the unvarnished truth regarding his whereabouts - again, given past history”

“You may not believe me, but yes, I would.”

“Well - then a Christmas miracle,” John squares his shoulders.

“Come inside, ...John,” John raises his eyebrows - it is the first time Mycroft used his Christian name.

The flat is half in boxes. John looks around and Mycroft registers his surprise.

“Sherlock has had...a difficult time, in your absence. He asked me to send him in with the Overlord operation, a request which I naturally denied, “ Mycroft frowns.

“Why?”  
“Why would I prevent my only brother from participating in an invasion where brute force is the order of the day and his particular talents would be of no use?” Mycroft snaps.

“No. Why did he want to go?”

Mycroft expression is politely incredulous, “You cannot mean to tell me that Sherlock’s excessive regard for you has escaped your notice? A regard that I thought you returned.”

“I DID!” John pauses, “And I thought I saw proof of his...regard for me. But I also remember your brother telling me ‘no matter where you are, I will find you’...and that promise came to nothing. Even if he couldn’t find me through his...your resources - I wrote to him - what I could write, given the censors,” John pulls himself upright, a squared-off, military posture, “He never replied, not even when...Never.”

Mycroft gives John an appraising glance, “You wrote - but only what you could send through the military censors.”

“I’ve been in hospital - couldn’t walk for months, still need this awful…,” John gesture to his cane, then stares down Mycroft with the full ‘Captain Watson’ glare, “Look, I was shot - nearly killed - in France. I was bleeding out, but all I could think was, ‘Please God let me live’...and that was down to him, really. Since I’ve been back, I regretted that prayer - it’s shameful, but it is also true...also down to him. It took a dressing down from my Major to get me to pay even the slightest attention to my physio….”

“Major James Sholto - your Major, also your former lover - did that play a role in your motivations, I wonder?”

John laughs, “Yes, Mycroft - it did. I wanted to take comfort...to shelter from the storm with James, as we are both invalided - he would not let me. James reminded me that - as far as we knew - Sherlock was still out there, somewhere in the world,” John shakes his head, “James forced me to get well so that I could find him, even if Sherlock doesn’t feel the same - I need to hear it, from him. I didn’t simply ‘have a regard’ for your brother - I loved him...love him.”

Mycroft weighs his options quickly, “Yes, I believe you do.”

“You do. Yet you will not help me find him,” John meets Mycroft’s eyes; it is a statement, not a question.

In reply, Mycroft stretches out his empty hands - an oddly supplicant gesture, “I realize you do not trust my motives, as well you mightn’t - given, as you say, past history. Very well. Sherlock is in no position to weather the storm of strong emotion at present. Whilst a reunion, happy or otherwise, may be possible at some point in the future - I do not see any chance of it now.”

“So you won’t tell Sherlock that I came,” John asks angrily.

“No,” Mycroft offers no additional explanation.

John stretches and flexes his left hand, nods sharply and executes an about-face and steps away. Before he’s taken more than three paces, he stops without turning back to Mycroft, “If he still feels something for me, as you say he did...then he needs me to heal, just as I need him. If you are keeping me from him, he will never forgive you once I find him. And I will find him, Mycroft,” John squares his shoulders, and walks away - never looking back.

Mycroft is surprised when Anthea arrives - could four hours have passed so quickly?

“Sir. The moving crew will arrive in the morning,” Anthea carefully pitches her sentence between a statement and question.

“Yes - they can box up the remaining,” Mycroft waves his hand, indicating ‘the flat’, “for storage at our country pile.”

“Mr Holmes, your brother indicated a different address,” Anthea hedges, “221B Baker Street, London.”

Mycroft Holmes is so rarely surprised that he says nothing at all. Anthea takes the lack of response for consent and amends the workers’ orders.

## January 1945 - St Johns Wood, London

It is nearly midnight when Mycroft turns the key to his tastefully lavish home on Avenue Road in St Johns Wood. He passes through the reception hall into his study, making a beeline for the bar cart. Mycroft pours a measure of scotch into his glass, then sighs and adds a second finger. Only after his first sip does he notice that one of the snifters is missing.

“Really, Mycroft. I could have assassinated you ten different ways, eleven if you count poisoning your mediocre-yet-ancient whiskey,” Sherlock drawls.

“Does the clinic in Switzerland know you’ve left?”

“Not Yet...evening bed checks will be a bit out of order tonight. The male orderly is a bit...tied up.”

“Sherlock!”

“Mycroft, don’t fuss. He consented...although perhaps he had a different idea of what he was getting into. Remind me - is attempting to sodomize patients in the linen cupboard a standard therapeutic practice or will Mr Rocher potentially be facing disciplinary action if our little escapade became widely known?  I assure you, he is safe - as long as he doesn’t fall off the bed,” Sherlock grins as he steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips.

“I see. So - were this...person’s attentions the reason for leaving your sixth clinical facility under cover of darkness?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock huffs, “He was just...expedient.”

“Obvious. So - you have returned to London, and instructed Anthea to move your belongings to a flat on Baker Street - when I think you know that, without reasonable assurance from a man of medicine - that you are fit for service, I will simply remand you into institutional care...again.”

Sherlock retrieves a military-issue envelope from his inner jacket pocket and hands it to Mycroft. Mycroft does not need to look to know that the writer is Captain Watson.

“How did...oh! Homeless network? Your addicts and urchins have a working knowledge of our postal system. How refreshing.”

“Read it. Aloud,” Sherlock flaps the well-worn envelope under Mycroft’s nose.

Mycroft stifles a sigh of exasperation, and begins, “Dear Sherlock - I hope my letter finds you well. It has been many months since we last spoke, but the thought of our handful of days in London has been my only consolation as I struggle to recover, in both body and mind.

I wonder if your silence perhaps indicates that those days do not stand in such sharp relief for you? I would understand - genius is easily bored. Though it would mean the world to me if I could hear those words directly from you. I’m stuck, you see. Until I know otherwise, for me - It’s Always You.

If my previous letters’ tone is what gives you pause, rest assured that I only wish to know you are safe and well - I will make no other claims on your...time.

Yours, John”

“Alive. John was wounded - but he is alive,” Sherlock’s tone holds a question.

“So it would appear. Felicitations, brother mine.”

“Where is he, Mycroft? How could you have kept this from me?”

“Forgive me, I was too busy appeasing the family of your jilted American lover...I wonder what the faithful Captain Watson would have made of Victor Trevor?”

“John would make nothing of Victor Trevor because Trevor was nothing more than a distraction and a poor one at that,” Sherlock sneers.

“Of course. Nevertheless, it would have been easier to share intelligence with you if only I were in possession of your location. I suppose I could have called - did your Chinatown opium den have a phone line?”

“John was injured! His injuries clearly encompass his dominant hand - you can tell from the shaky handwriting. John was hurt and I wasn’t there,” Sherlock tears at his hair.

“Sherlock - if Watson is recovering himself, he hardly needs…”

“John Watson NEEDS ME!”

“Ah yes, I am certain that dealing with a reeling addict is precisely the course of physical rehabilitation that the staff at Netley would recommend.”

“Netley? That’s where you’ve been keeping him?” Sherlock stands, gathering his coat.

“Sherlock - enlighten me,” Mycroft leans back in his chair, withdrawing a cigarette from the silver case in his breast pocket and tapping the case closed. “Captain Watson does not desire a return to London if it means staying with his alcohol-addicted sister. What might he say to your collapsing veins and nodding head?” Sherlock slows and faces his brother.

The adversarial mood collapses around the brothers. Sherlock capitulates and flops into the guest chair. He grabs his own cigarette. Mycroft lights them both, then casts the match into an enormous crystal ashtray, “I am prepared for evenings when Churchill pays a call. Not that the Prime Minister confines the cigar ash from his Romeo y Julietas to this receptacle, preferring instead to gesticulate them over whichever rug is most costly, but…”

“And your Aubusson?”

“...Is ‘prepared for martyrdom, though I preferred that it be postponed’, “ Mycroft and Sherlock share a quiet laugh.

“Sherlock. I can bring in skilled nursing here. Stay, get clean first - you have an excellent motivation -  then find John,” Mycroft pleads with his genius brother.

Sherlock hangs his head but accepts the wisdom of Mycroft’s words. He picks up the letter, examining it for the thousandth time,“This was written in November - it implies there were others. Where?”

Mycroft reaches into the secret compartment in his desk, extracting a packet of letters. He places them in front of Sherlock, “There is one other item - not sent by Capt Watson, but likely his Corporal Bill Murray - John’s journal. I’m not certain he intended you to see these - but Murray thought John had given up and this was his...response to save his friend.”

“Is John still in danger?”

“John Watson is recuperated enough, physically, that he will be discharged soon. His mental state, however, is precarious. I am given to understand that he would very much like to be reunited with you - even if only to hear that you no longer bear him the same regard as once you did.”

Sherlock looks at John’s journal, fingers tracing the ink forming ‘Dear Sherlock’ on each page, “I’ll stay. Bring in the nursing staff as soon as you are able?”

“Of course, Brother Mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Winston Churchill and his infamous cigars (R&J's) visit Mycroft in the dead of night.


	26. We'll Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock both return to London. Time passes, and a chance meeting takes both men unawares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. The Chapter Count Has Risen! I'd promise it's the last time, but I'd hate to lie inadvertently. The boys just need enough words to get them through. Not much more to go - promise.  
> Thank you for reading and ESPECIALLY for commenting. AU's are particularly difficult because there is so much world-building and in the case of historical ones, research. I had John in a bedsit until I realized that - by the end of the war - there were no apartments to be had in London. Similarly - the statue of Anteros (familiar to those who watched A Study in Pink) - well, it was rusticated to Surry for the duration of the war. Thank you for sticking with me - and I will be wrapping up soon to begin another adventure.

##  February 1945 - London

John shuffles slowly around his room - a single bed, a chair, a sink - the bathroom is down the hall, shared by other lodgers on the floor. There are no flats in London - it was only his brief connection to Major Glenn Miller that helped him secure a room at the Mount Royale. He can find someplace permanent once he starts working - but he cannot bring himself to seek work just yet.

The building is still in good nick, despite the new rounds of bombing with long-range missiles that came in the wake of the D-Day invasion. He leaves the flat at twilight and makes his way over to Montague Street once more. This time, there is no Mycroft Holmes blocking the door. There is also no Sherlock. John asks the landlady - a Mrs Turner - when Sherlock was last here

“Well now - Mr Holmes, that’s Mr Holmes-the-Younger, he’s been gone nigh on eight months. I kept the flat tidy - never know when he’s liable to return. Then, Mr Holmes the Elder come by - a month on - says his brother won’t be needin’ the place no more. He paid me for some months, easy as you like - and had movers by...must have been only last fortnight,” Mrs Turner nods to herself.

“Do you know where Mr Holmes moved? The Younger, I mean,” John hides grin at referring to the Holmes brothers as though they were Dutch renaissance painters.

“I’m afraid I can do nowt to help you, laddie. Mr Holmes Senior is not what you’d call forthcoming,” Mrs Turner smiles.

“I see - well, thank you for your time, Mrs Turner,” John turns sadly and moves on. Sherlock may be the love of his life, but he knows next to nothing of the man’s habits - and what little he does recall could have been nothing more than the Naval Lieutenant’s cover. There is only one place - other than the Montague Street flat - that was truly Sherlock’s own. 

Several nights later, John stands in front of 22 Northumberland, watching Angelo greet his guests. When there is a lull, John ambles in, still wearing his service dress uniform.

“Dining alone, or waiting for someone?” Angelo barely looks at John as he collects a menu from the podium.

“Right, um Angelo? Hello. I’m sure you won’t remember, but I was here once before…”

Angelo whirls around, grabbing John heartily (painfully) by the shoulders, “Of COURSE, l’amico _di_ Sherlock - I would never forget! Is he coming here, then? He has been gone from London for too long a time,” Angelo manhandles John into an empty table.

“No, Angelo - that’s just it. I’ve been away and when I came back, I went by his flat. He’s moved. I don’t know where to...but I thought perhaps he’d been here if he’s still somewhere in London?”

“If Sherlock Holmes is in London, he would come to Angelo’s,” the man intones darkly, “He ate with us at least once a fortnight. There were times Mamma thought that was all he ate: once fortnightly. I have not seen him since the last time he was here with you. It was the only time he ever brought someone by,” Angelo gives John a knowing wink.

John’s heart plummets, “Right. Well, I’ll be going...thank you, mate.”

“You cannot leave without letting me feed you - if only for Mr Sherlock’s sake. Please - I would consider it a favour. Stay for dinner, amico mio,” and John cannot say no.

Weeks pass, and John makes little progress in returning to a ‘normal life’ in London. V2 rockets still tear through the night sky, John volunteers to man the first aid station in the hotel’s basement air raid shelter - it is mostly light work. He talks to few people. As weeks turn into months, the only minor events that mark off time are John’s visits to Angelo. He saves his ration coupons, and what little money there is from his pension for a meal. John eats sparingly, and carefully, casually mentions Sherlock - only once and just in passing.

“ _ He’s thinner than last month, mamma _ ,” Angelo pronounces as he re-enters the restaurant kitchen. 

“ _ He is pining, figlio mio, a blind fool could see that _ ,” Angelo’s mother replies, “ _ Allora - for him, I will make the gnocchi. Poor boy - and who even knows if Signore Sherlock will ever return?” _

“ _ Sta' zitto, Mamma _ !” Angelo forks his fingers, warding off the evil eye, “ _ How can you say such things? Signore Sherlock loves London - where else would he be? _ ”

“ _ Figlio, you are young, but not so young that you do not understand what war can do, _ ” Mamma looks through the swinging doors to John’s solitary table, “ _ I pray for him. I pray for them both - they need each other. _ ”

##  March 1945 - St Johns Wood

“For the love of all that is holy, Mycroft! This cannot continue,” Sherlock whirls into a club chair in Mycroft’s study.

Mycroft does not raise his eyes, “I feel quite certain you are about to tell me what inspired this latest rant?”

“You mean you can’t figure it out? - I thought you were the clever one?”

“I  _ am _ the clever one, but this guessing game isn’t worth my time,” Mycroft does look up in exasperation, “Sherlock, it has been over two months - and while I cannot yet clear you for SOE activities, perhaps it is past time that you reacquainted yourself with London?”

“You would let me out of this gilded age gilded cage? I don’t believe you,” Sherlock crosses his arms and legs.

“You have been clean - none of the drug tests since the first one came back positive - and while temptation may reside beyond these walls, that is something you must learn to live with. Temptation is not the only thing beyond these walls,” Mycroft busies himself with a red leather box, looking suspiciously like His Majesty’s correspondence, “John Watson has returned to London.”

Sherlock is silent and still.

“I presume this information still has an impact on you, as I have not seen you this quiet and motionless since you moved in… Acclimate yourself to London once more - when you are ready, I have John Watson’s current address,” and with that, Mycroft takes himself off to Westminster and his ‘minor government position’.

Sherlock stares at the desk long after his brother’s departure. The address would not be here - would not be physically anywhere - Mycroft is too wary for that, and worse - he made a point that Sherlock begrudgingly acknowledges as accurate. Sherlock needs to immerse himself in London again before he throws himself at the feet of John Watson. It would never do for Sherlock’s first challenge to his sobriety to be John’s rejection - and, given the tone of John’s later letters, Sherlock must come to terms with the possibility that John has moved on after almost a year of Sherlock’s radio silence.

Sherlock begins later that day - short trips, revisiting familiar sites. He moves through them like a ghost, cataloguing the changes that German bombing and wartime shortages have wrought. The face of his city is ravaged, but still beautiful to Sherlock. 

 

Weeks pass - and the storms of March give way to April and spring sunshine. Mycroft still refuses to clear Sherlock for espionage work with the SOE, but Scotland Yard’s Detective Inspector Lestrade is not as particular. Lestrade is careful to avoid bringing Sherlock into any cases where drugs may play a role. His caution serves him well when he receives an after-hours visit from a minor functionary of the British Government who intimidates Lestrade, then leaves at the behest of Churchill’s driver.

Mycroft returns home in a towering rage on that occasion. 

“Where is my brother?” Mycroft demands, handing hat and coat to his butler, Colton.

“Mr Sherlock is in the drawing-room, Sir. May I have your instructions regarding dinner? Mrs Hughes was most put-out as her souffle will no doubt demonstrate,” Colton asks.

“Indeed. I will take a tray in my study - whatever Mrs Hughes prefers. Thank you, Colton,” Mycroft stalks into the drawing room, “Sir Winston Churchill was leaving the War Office, walking to dinner at the Clarence, since his driver, Robinson, was nowhere to be found when Robinson delivered me to his door. Cecil Robinson has known Winston for some years, it seems almost impossible that he should mistake another person for the Prime Minister, yet he reports that Churchill gave the order to him directly - though perhaps a bit muffled by the scarf that the Prime Minister had wrapped around his neck on account of his ‘touch of ague’. Someone skilled impersonated our Prime Minister...And - naturally - you were nowhere near Westminster today. No. You are sprawled across my Chesterfield like some sort of fainting Regency heroine. Robinson unwittingly removed me from an important meeting…”

“False!” Sherlock interrupts, “You were prevented from further harassing my detective inspector. He is the only thing standing between me and the cocaine bottle, Mycroft. Him and his pointlessly simple robberies and tediously inept murders,” Sherlock finishes petulantly.

“Gregory Lestrade needed to be informed,” Mycroft bites out.

“Who is ‘Gregory Lestrade’?”

“The...police officer - detective inspector - really, Sherlock…”

“Oh him - you mean about the drugs? Lestrade knows. During my last ‘mishap’ in London he pulled me out of a doss house...more than once, actually. I’d helped him with a case - while I was completely out of my mind on drugs as it happens. During one of those times when I was...difficult to track down, I was living in the lumber-room of Lestrade’s council flat with his wife, children...the wife was cheating on him, the children were let to run wild, but...he got me clean, and I stayed clean for a long while,” Sherlock is quiet, reflective.

Mycroft sighs, “I’ll send the good Detective Inspector a hamper to express my thanks,” he holds out a key, “Here - take this.”

“I have keys, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneers.

“Not these - these are the keys to the flat on Baker Street, owned by one Martha Hudson - with whom you are, no doubt, well acquainted.”   
“I can go?”

“Your effects have already been brought in. It only remains for you to pack your personal belongings - Colton will help you in the morning.”

Sherlock stares at the key as though it might start speaking in tongues, “I didn’t think...I...Thank You, Mycroft. For everything.”

“You are most welcome, brother.”

Sherlock’s attempt at packing is so chaotic that the long-suffering Colton is forced to redo everything in the morning. Sherlock eventually abandons him to visit the new flat on Baker Street. After a tearful reunion with Martha Hudson (on her part, not his), Sherlock is content to continue his programme of London exploration - this time with his home base at 221B Baker Street. He ventures a bit further with every journey, exploring neutral territory first. Cases with the Yarders take him through the East End, and out into the dockyards. The only place he has gone to some lengths to entirely avoid is Piccadilly Circus, until avoiding it becomes untenable.

##  April 1945 - London

That is how Sherlock finds himself - one April evening - outside Rainbow Corner, seized with an almost overwhelming longing to go in. A familiar laugh rings out across the no man’s land around the location of Shaftesbury Fountain; Sherlock’s heart gallops out of control, but he traces the sound to a young, dark-haired lieutenant. Disappointment floods him, in place of fear.

“Sentiment. Ridiculous - as if Captain John Watson is still hanging about Major Miller’s bandstand,” Sherlock chides himself.

* * *

Another April evening and John limps away from his room near Speaker’s Corner. A recent raid demolished part of the hotel lobby - but the lobby was not part of the structural foundation of the actual hotel, and John accepts the broken glass and rubble if it means there is still a roof over his head.

The roof in question occupied John’s thoughts today. He cannot survive on his savings and his meagre pension much longer. Today, he took the much overdue step of reaching out to one of his university classmates who both managed to obtain a medical degree and remain undrafted for the duration of the war. Michael Stamford is an attending physician at St. Barts, where he also teaches. While John is no longer fit for purpose as a surgeon, there are other areas of medical speciality where he could still ply his trade, Mike was quick to point out. Though John does not cede the point entirely; his billfold, nearly empty, argues for a speedy resolution through employment at St Bart’s.

For this reason, John agreed to meet Stamford for a drink this evening. He was less-than-thrilled by Mike’s choice of the Criterion Bar. The Criterion on Piccadilly Avenue overlooks the statue of Anteros in the Shaftesbury Fountain in the small plaza just outside of Rainbow Corner, or at least it did in peacetime. The fountain, topped by the winged god of requited love was removed from the plaza at the start of the war; John tries - and fails - to avoid reading a horrible, bitter irony into Anteros’ absence. In all of John’s travels through London in the past months, he has avoided Rainbow Corner. On Montague or Northumberland Streets, John still hopes against hope that he will see Sherlock Holmes again. In Piccadilly Circus, he only remembers. 

John stands, shoulders back with a military bearing sans uniform, at the top of the tube station stairs, his cane is hooked on the half-wall in front of him. 

“John! John Watson!,” Mike booms as he grasps John’s arm warmly.

“Jesus, Stamford - did you miss your calling as one of His Majesty’s Pages?”

“You can’t blame me for being pleased to see your handsome mug, John! I thought you were off with the Royal Marines, getting shot at by those bastard Huns. What happened?”

John’s shoulders droop, “I got shot,” he slowly reaches for his cane to hobble into the restaurant as Stamford realises the extent of John’s injury.

“Come on, man. Drinks - for both of us - on me,” Stamford gingerly pats John on the back as they turn and walk towards the Criterion.

* * *

“John! John Watson!”

Sherlock looks up sharply in the direction of the Piccadilly Circus tube station and there he stands. Captain John Watson - no, a Captain no longer, John wears a navy blue civilian suit in a trim cut that hangs from his thin frame. He stands, perfectly balanced and drawn up to his full height until the man who spoke his name makes a comment, and John -  _ his John _ \- sags and reaches for a cane to limp into the bar.

Sherlock is paralysed. 

The bustling madness of twilight in Piccadilly Circus swirls around Sherlock, who stands as though rooted near the base of former Shaftesbury Fountain, which was banished to the depths of Surrey for the duration of the war. He looks up at the “Guinness Time” clock - unilluminated, in deference to the Germans’ penchant for bombing anything they could see on their night raids - almost an hour has passed. John may have left the Criterion entirely!

Sherlock contemplates hailing a cab and running to Mycroft’s - he thought he was ready, but the sight of John Watson proves readiness is impossible. How can one prepare oneself for the sight of a face so beloved yet so long lost that love may be only a memory and your shared passion, a ghost? He shakes his head - even if John no longer feels the same, Sherlock owes him a real goodbye. He stands tall - pulling every inch of intimidating height and elegance into his bearing. If he can show just a fraction of the bravery John displayed the night they met, perhaps he could feel the press of John’s hand in his own once more.

Sherlock crosses to the Criterion, and stands helplessly on the sidewalk as he watches John Watson putting on his hat, parting company with the stout, bearded doctor ( _ Also teaches - St Bart’s, judging by the man’s case and the time of night.)  _ The doctor walks out into the evening crowds; John waits - adjusting his gloves - and then leans heavily on his cane and ambles out, nearly colliding with the boy delivering the evening papers. He spins around, right into Sherlock’s path. His cane falls from his hand and Sherlock neatly catches it.

“John,” if there was noise in Piccadilly Circus, it has gone silent as the cloisters. Sherlock grasps John’s bicep, the pedestrian traffic in the street flows around them. John studies Sherlock’s face as though a thousand false Sherlocks have accosted him throughout London, and he wants to assure himself that this one is only another mirage before walking on. Sherlock takes John in - deductions flow nervously from his lips.

“The crowds do not bother you - you were not shot during the landing on Normandy Beach, then. You were isolated when it happened - so you stay in the throng of wartime London. Not artillery - no...a combatant’s weapon, like our Tommy gun - semi-automatic, large calibre bullets. They shot you from behind, but at close range. Cowards,“ Sherlock gasps passionately.

“You...Sherlock? You are here,” John whispers. Sherlock draws him away from the crush of traffic in the square, down a side street. 

Sherlock cannot stop cataloguing the changes in John’s face and body - angry that time has carried on without him, “Your limp, on the other hand, is entirely psychosomatic. But you are here - you survived the wound and its repair…”

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John stops the torrent of words, “I know the bloody limp is psychosomatic - I am a goddamn doctor, for Christ’s sake - or at least I was. If I cannot be again, I will have to leave London. I can’t afford to stay here. 

But leave all that for now. Sherlock, where did you go? You said…, before my group moved up, ‘no matter where you are, I will find you’. And then - I was shot, it got infected and I was….I was so, so lost. I wanted...needed you to find me”.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, “I thought….I thought you were dead, you were listed among the fallen and I...,” overwhelmed, Sherlock draws himself up and continues with a false bonhomie infusing his words. “So - how do you feel about the violin?”

John straightens, sadness is gradually clouded by growing anger, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking...sometimes I don’t talk for days - would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst of each other,” Sherlock blunders on.

“I’m sorry - who said anything about flatmates?” 

“I did. You are clearly home from the Front for the duration of the war - there are simply no flats left in London, so you must be spending a good portion of your pension for a room in one of the surviving hotels...I have my eye on a nice little place in Central London - together we should be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, 6 o’clock,” Sherlock reluctantly releases John’s arms - turning to leave before John can say anything, including ‘no’.

“So that’s it, then,” John’s voice arrests Sherlock’s progress.

“Problem?”

“We just accidentally run into each other after a year - during which I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. You never responded to my letters, even when I bloody well begged you to. And now you just…’Jolly fellow, well met. Fancy sharing a flat?’ You didn’t even give me the address,” John snarls angrily, “The VERY FIRST DAY I returned to London - I went to Montague Street - only to meet Mycroft, who essentially told me to sod off. The next time I came, even the memory of you was gone!”

“You saw Mycroft?”

“He didn’t tell you? He didn’t tell you - I knew he wouldn’t. But it’s convenient, innit? The way your bloody brother pops up like some sort of evil fairy whenever you can’t be arsed to tell me what is going on in person! But still - I’d hoped…,” John’s hope was cut off by the wail of the air raid siren, “Bloody hell! They’ve started early this evening.”

John turns and starts walking towards the Tube station, but Sherlock remains motionless once more, “Sherlock? Come on.”

Slowly, Sherlock begins walking backwards, “I...come tomorrow. The address is 221B Baker Street, in Marleybone - in the evening - 6 o’clock. Please, John?”

And without another word, Sherlock disappears into the darkened alleyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geek Minutiae:   
> The Shaftesbury Fountain with the statue of Anteros was featured in BBC Sherlock's S1E1. It is in the same place (Piccadilly Circus) - where Stamford and Watson meet in the original A Study In Scarlet (at the Criterion Bar), and it is also quite close to Rainbow Corner - the epicentre of this story.  
> The Mount Royale Hotel (near Speaker's Corner) was where Major Glenn Miller stayed - and American GI's were given a list of available hotels because there were no flats left in London. It was hit by a V2 rocket in March of '45, but remained somewhat functional.  
> Sherlock Holmes - in the original stories - was something of a master of disguise. So I resurrected that aspect of him to impersonate Winston Churchill to the man's driver.


	27. The Nearness of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get in the car, Doctor Watson. The Germans are punctual, and this is one of their favourite bombing runs with the factories nearby,” Mycroft concludes.  
> John sighs, but gets into the car.  
> “So - reunited under the statues of Anteros yesterday, today you look at a flat together, am I to expect a happy announcement by the end of this week?”  
> “I don’t think that is any of your business.”  
> “It could be,” Mycroft hedges.  
> “No, it really couldn’t.”  
> “What are your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes?”  
> “Is this the ‘break his heart and I will break your legs’ talk, Mycroft. Because if it is, you are a bit late, mate,” John counters.  
> “You still aren’t afraid of me.”  
> “You still aren’t frightening. Aggravating, yes. Along with fantastically self-important. But you don’t frighten me, and when it comes down to it - neither do the Germans. But I would rather take my chances with them than spend another moment in this car with you,” John growls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to finish it all at once...then I decided that what might un-stick the last bit is to publish the penultimate bit. I do try to be real about the chapter counts, but if they aren't finished...what can one do? They just aren't finished with me yet.

Even Sherlock cannot hail a cab during an air raid; fortunately, Mycroft’s minders sent a car for him before the first siren sounded. When he bursts through Mycroft’s front door, he is panting as though he ran a sprint. He crashes into his brother’s office  _ (Mycroft’s Lair, _ Sherlock calls it in his Mind Palace), hands shaking with suppressed emotion as he lights a cigarette.

“What is it now?” Mycroft starts.

“You. You knew John Watson was here in London. Not just through your spies and minions - you saw him, he spoke with you and yet you kept him from me! Why, Mycroft?” 

“At the time you were not here to tell. And if my concern was chiefly for you, well - that is as it ought to be...you are my brother, Sherlock,” Mycroft retorts, “Were you ready to be reunited with John Watson? Even now, I question your readiness; if a mere ten-minute encounter leaves you looking wilder than you have in months. I wonder...did you come directly from seeing Doctor Watson, or did you pause to relieve some of your feelings with a seven per cent solution?”

“I. Am. CLEAN!” he thunders.

“So you’ve said - occasionally it has even been true. Do you want me to apologise, to beg your pardon that I didn’t sweep the good doctor off to your hospital in Switzerland the moment he surprised me on your doorstep? A medical facility you had already quit, which would have led to a tidy scene of Watson discovering your chemical peccadillo when you were high as a kite and skulking in my darkened study? Then you are a fool. Ever the flair for the dramatic, but I do not think Captain Watson would have taken kindly to such a theatrical reveal,” Mycroft is exasperated and doesn’t hesitate to show it.

“I wish you had done,” Sherlock hangs his head with the finality of one who has been well-and-truly beaten, “I would rather he hate me for something I am - an addict - than despise me for something I am not. He thinks I had forgotten...worse, abandoned him. I am an addict, I may be a fool, but I am not heartless. I pretended to be heartless - mostly for you. John saw through me in a minute”.

“How did you leave things with him?”

“I asked him to go in on the flat with me,” he shakes his head.

“Dr Watson agreed to another meeting?”

“No. I asked him, then I ran at the first blast of the siren - before he could tell me ‘no’,” Sherlock gazes at the burnt down cigarette in his hand and crushes it in Churchill’s ashtray.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft pauses, then writes an address on a slip of paper and pushes it across the desk to his brother, “Go to him if he does not come.”

“If he doesn’t come - what can I say?”

Mycroft clears his throat primly, “I am, perhaps, less of an authority on this subject matter.”

“Well - thank god it was a rhetorical question.”

“Quite. Colton has made up your room - stay here. Make Baker Street presentable tomorrow, and Sherlock? Good luck.”

* * *

John tries to follow Sherlock, but the tide of humanity pushing in the opposite direction takes him into the Tube station at Piccadilly Circus. From there, he takes the underground to Marble Arch, changing lines at Bond Street and by the time he climbs from the station, the All Clear sirens wail. He settles down on his bed, hopeful for a decent night’s sleep - uninterrupted by dreams of Sherlock or air raid sirens and the Luftwaffe. As he lays between the hotel’s starched white sheets, he replays their conversation again.

_ Sherlock seemed frightened almost. There would be no cause to fear if things were well and truly over, would there? But if things are not over, then why - in the name of all things holy - was Sherlock capering about London? Why had he ignored John for an entire year? His tone of voice when he proposed they become flatmates - it was such false Public School poshness. Why?  _

John flipped his pillow, trying to find a cool place.  _ Well, that’s decided. If he cannot be genuine with me for a ten bloody minute conversation - it’s pretty clear that what transpired a year ago was just...Sherlock playing a role. Perhaps he had even convinced himself? I am most definitely NOT going to...to...221B Baker Street at 6 in the evening. No - I will write James, I will tell him...Sherlock is not who I thought he was.  _ John feels comforted by his resolve - for surely this is the right course of action - he turns to sleep, pursued by visions of Sherlock’s coat swirling in the distance as he disappears down another dream-darkened alleyway.

The next day, at half-past five in the evening, John hails a cab to bring him to Baker Street.

“You came,” the words lay gasping at John’s feet before Sherlock can remember he was supposed to keep them in.

“I...yes,” John shakes Sherlock’s hand awkwardly.

Any further attempt at conversation is stifled by the untimely arrival of the landlady, “Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor Watson, he’s come to see about the flat. Doctor Watson, our landlady - Mrs Hudson.”

“Pleasure, ma'am. But, I’m not certain….”

“Oh, a doctor AND you’re a soldier - the haircut, I can always tell,” Mrs Hudson titters, embracing Sherlock warmly, “You know there  _ is _ a second bedroom if you will be needing two.”

“Of course we will be needing two,” John raises his eyebrows in alarm.

“Oh - don’t be concerned, John. Mrs Hudson is an old friend - I was able to help out in some small way when her husband was held for a double homicide some years back in Florida.”

“You stopped her husband from being executed?”

“Oh no, I ensured it,” Sherlock throws the door open widely and ushers John in.

“You know, Doctor Watson - there are just no flats to be had in the whole of London. But dear Sherlock is such a…”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson - perhaps you can accommodate Doctor Watson and me with some tea? Biscuits wouldn’t go amiss, either,” Sherlock turns to study John. It feels as though John might vanish if Sherlock looks away.

“Well - just this once. I’m not your housekeeper, dear,” with that, Martha Hudson leaves Sherlock and John in the sitting room of 221B.

John looks around the flat - a Victorian home adapted for modern life with a gas ring and an icebox in what was once likely the dining room. The parlour is snug and warm, with a working fireplace and two comfortable chairs drawn close to it. There are no flats to be had in London...if he and Sherlock were to share, John could get back on his feet again. They could co-exist peacefully - couldn’t they? Now that any hope of romance has been set aside?

“It’s a lovely flat - once we clear away some of this rubbish…,” John begins and Sherlock speaks at the same time.

“I thought so too, that’s why I moved in...Oh. That is to say - I can clear up some of this...paperwork, and...will you stay?” Sherlock asks in a plaintive undertone.

John grasps his cane, draws himself up to his full height, “Let’s see the bedroom,” when Sherlock gestures to the bath and his room down the hallway, John snaps, “No, my bedroom.”

“You...oh, of course. It’s just this way,” Sherlock leads John up a short flight of stairs.

As John inspects the small but tidy space and the adjacent lumber room, Sherlock wrings his hands. 

_ Of course - idiot - he doesn’t want to share a bed with you. You are fortunate - blessedly fortunate - that he would even consider sharing this flat. But how are you going to live, watching him hobbling up the stairs each night? When he brings a woman or - worse - another man to share his bed? You will want to murder them in their sleep, make no mistake. Still - he is here, which means there is a chance, however slender, that you can fix this. He’s in horrible condition, at least some of that is down to you, you WILL fix this for him. _

“SHERLOCK,” a man’s voice bellows from the parlour. By the time Sherlock and John return, Detective Inspector Lestrade is emerging from Sherlock’s bedroom, “Oh - there you are!”

“There’s been another one,” Sherlock is already pulling on his coat and gloves.

“Yes - I’ve brought the car ‘round,” the DI Lestrade made himself comfortable, sipping a cup of Mrs Hudson’s tea.

“This gentleman lives here too?” John asks Sherlock, with a blank expression.

Lestrade laughs, “Sometimes it feels that way, but no...Sherlock, will you come?”

“Yes - but I will follow by cab,” Sherlock whirls into his greatcoat. 

“Suit yourself - the address is 3 Lauriston Gardens...I’ll meet you there,” the detective inspector sets down his cup and descends the stairs, tipping his hat briefly to John.

“John - please stay and make yourself comfortable...I shouldn’t be late and we can discuss the particulars,” Sherlock leaves, nearly knocking into Mrs Hudson on his way.

“That Sherlock - always off, all hours - dashing about like a hurricane. My husband was just the same - but you seem a more steady type, what with your injured leg…”

“DAMN my leg!” John swears violently, “...I mean...I’m sorry, it’s a difficult thing to…,” John casts about for his hat and gathers himself to leave Baker Street.

“I understand, Doctor Watson,” Mrs Hudson narrows her eyes shrewdly, “I made stew for dinner - there is more than enough for you to join me, and I can answer any questions about the flat. Come along - I live just downstairs,” Mrs Hudson picks up Lestrade’s discarded teacup, and turns to leave without giving John the chance to make his excuses.

No sooner does she leave than Sherlock returns to the parlour entrance, “You were a combat doctor, a surgeon.”

“You knew that.”

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

“So - you’ve seen inflicted injuries, violent deaths...”

“Yes.”

“...known a bit of trouble, too. Excitement”

“Yes, far too much. Enough for a lifetime,” John stands at the ready.

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock grins.

“Oh god, yes!” John’s response comes from deep within and with that, he is trailing Sherlock down the stairs, begging off from dinner with Mrs Hudson as he leaves.

* * *

In the cab, an awkward silence descends on the men.

“Is it a murder then? Is that what awaits in Lauriston Gardens?”John tries to make some conversation.

“Scotland Yard believes they are suicides,” Sherlock deflects.

“But you don’t?”

“No”

“And your...friend, the detective inspector, he believes you?” John inches towards asking Sherlock about Lestrade - and his familiarity with the flat.

“Obviously.”

“ _ Obviously... _ so, he’s a close friend, then? Close enough to look for you in your bedroom, after all,” John tries - and fails - to keep the jealousy out of his tone.

“Lestrade?”

“Well - he said that he practically lived there. So he’s your...companion, then?”

“You think that is the reason he is consulting me on this case? Because he’s my lover?” Sherlock asks incredulously.

“Well - the police keep their own counsel. No matter how overqualified, they don’t consult amateurs,” John huffs - trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

“When I first met you, I guessed your medical training by your thumb and your orientation by the way you leaned against the table when we first spoke. Mrs Hudson’s husband’s death sentence was assured because I was able to link the soles of the murderer’s shoes to a British navy issue boot dating to the first world war and the rope technique to certain practices learned on his tour of duty in Japan. When I first met Lestrade, I deduced the ‘suicide’ sprawled across the pavement was, in fact, a murder based on one of the victim’s missing shoes that caught as she was pushed over the ledge, and his wife’s infidelity from the starch in his shirt collar...so, you are right,” Sherlock sits back, smugly.

“I’m right,” John slumps back, heartbroken.

“Yes. The police don’t consult amateurs. In all else, you are dead wrong. Lestrade remains unhappily married to his cheating spouse, whose infidelity I had a chance to confirm when I was a house guest of the Lestrade Family for some days...after,” Sherlock falters, “...after the Detective Inspector found me - overdosed in an opium den and forced me to break the habit.”

“You aren’t lovers?”

“I don’t have lovers, John. Since the day that we met, I’ve only had the one,” Sherlock meets John’s gaze steadily. John is lost for words, licking his lips. The mood is broken by the cab driver announcing their arrival at Lauriston Gardens.

* * *

Less than an hour later, John is cursing Sherlock, who - once again - disappeared into the night in search of the wedding ring of the murdered squire - an artefact that none of the Yarders seemed to have noticed was gone.

John has hobbled several blocks, but there are no cabs in Brixton - when a familiar navy blue car pulls up next to him. The rear window rolls down, and Mycroft Holmes leans out, “Welcome home, Doctor Watson. Might I offer you a ride?”

John clenches his fist around the top of his cane, “Mycroft,” John grumbles to himself. “Of course - Sherlock disappears without so much as a word - and you appear, like some sort of Christmas Carol ghost.”

“Get in the car, Doctor Watson. The Germans are punctual, and this is one of their favourite bombing runs with the factories nearby,” Mycroft concludes.

John sighs, but gets into the car.

“So - reunited under the statues of Anteros yesterday, today you look at a flat together, am I to expect a happy announcement by the end of this week?” 

“I don’t think that is any of your business.”

“It could be,” Mycroft hedges.

“No, it really couldn’t.”

“What are your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes?”

“Is this the ‘break his heart and I will break your legs’ talk, Mycroft. Because if it is, you are a bit late, mate,” John counters.

“You still aren’t afraid of me.”

“You still aren’t frightening. Aggravating, yes. Along with fantastically self-important. But you don’t frighten me, and when it comes down to it - neither do the Germans. But I would rather take my chances with them than spend another moment in this car with you,” John growls. 

“How will you return to Baker Street?”

“I don’t live at Baker Street; I live at the Mount Royale, near Speaker’s Corner...so if you insist on running this kidnapper’s car service, would you be so good as to drop me there?”

“You won’t be moving in with my brother?”   
“Again, not your business.”

“Sherlock is my business. I worry about him, constantly… And if you have rejected him, then there is more than ample cause to worry,” Mycroft continues.

“And yet...you know precisely how long I’ve been living in London - with not so much as a sign of Sherlock. Had I not been in Piccadilly, purely on accident, he would be offering his flatshare to some Detective Inspector, not to me. I don’t need Sherlock’s pity - nor do I need your sympathy,” John knocks on the privacy partition with his cane and asks the driver to take him to the hotel.

“It is not my tale to tell, but I feel I must be frank with you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft begins, tentatively.

“Well - there’s a first time for everything...frank about what?”

“About my brother - and why he has failed to seek you out. When you were shot, the initial reports came back that you had been killed in action. Sherlock discovered this when he was recuperating from being captured by a German operative, the details of which I’m afraid I cannot share. He...disappeared, I found in him....,” Mycroft trails off - uncertain whether he should continue to air his brother’s laundry.

“...you found him?” John asks, his voice tight with impatience.

Mycroft sighs and his rigid posture deflates, “I found Sherlock in an opium den that he frequented before the war, attempting to overdose. Over the next year, I remanded him into institutional care multiple times. Each new facility, he escaped within a week, maybe two.  Each time, he was lost in a heroin-fog - until my operatives could turn him up. He was determined to be the agent of his own self-destruction, so much so that I did not tell him you were alive, once your identity had been confirmed...because your health was so precarious, and I knew if he had you, only to lose you again - it would be the end of him,” Mycroft trails off. 

John wipes his jaw, surprise etching new lines on his forehead, “So Sherlock never knew - when he found me in Piccadilly Circus, he still thought I was a dead man?”

“Er, no...not exactly. You see, my brother was in a facility in Switzerland when he received a letter - via his homeless network - a letter from you. When he discovered that you lived still, Sherlock engineered another escape and confronted me. He was high - had been high for the better part of last year. We agreed that he would first have to get clean before he could attempt to see you again. And so...here we are,” Mycroft ends, uncomfortably.

“Indeed. Well. Thank you for the ride, Mycroft. You have certainly given me a lot to think about,” John gives no hint of his future plans as the car pulls into the hotel’s portico.

“You are returning to Baker Street?”

“Am I?”   
“Aren’t you? My brother loves you. And - as someone once said - he needs you to heal as much as you need him,” Mycroft brow furrows with concern as John reaches for the door. John pauses for a moment, as though he would answer Mycroft, then he shakes his head and exits the car.

When John reaches his room, there is a telegram waiting for him

_ Baker Street <stop> Come at once if convenient <stop> _

_ If inconvenient come anyway <stop> SH _

With a heavy sigh, John crumples the message. He looks longingly at his bed, then turns on his heel and heads out into the night towards Baker Street.

**Author's Note:**

> Incidentally - the places and as many of the names as I could muster - are real. Rainbow Corner was an outpost of the American Red Cross in Piccadilly Circle, and did host - amongst others - Glenn Miller and Jimmy Dorsey.


End file.
